


All Time Low

by sara_holmes



Series: Puzzle Pieces [10]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Comic Book Science, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Has Issues, Falling out, Family Drama, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Miscommunication, Multi, Not quite a break up, Steve is pissed, Teenage Drama, Tony dabbles in dangerous science, basically Arto has loads of problems that hit him all in one go, but people spend time apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-03-04 19:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13371795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes
Summary: His stupid best friend isn't talking to him, his stupid superhero parents are having drama of their own, and his stupid brain is acting up no matter how much he ignores it. Arto Rogers-Stark is not having the best time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Counterpart verse continues, this time from Arto's POV! There is a lot kicking off in this story and just keep in mind that Arto is perhaps not the most reliable narrator. He doesn't always have the whole picture and he jumps to conclusions and takes sides...he's a bit of a teenager about it, basically! That being said, I'm really enjoying writing this and I hope you guys enjoy it too.

Arto stands with his forehead pressed to the cold glass of his bedroom’s floor to ceiling windows, phone in hand. Staring out at the bleak January sky beyond, he lifts the phone to his ear and hits the dial symbol again. It rings and rings and then goes to voicemail again, Peter’s chirpy tones telling him to leave a message. He feels his stomach twist up into a sick knot, his throat going tight. That’s five calls and Peter still isn’t picking up. He’s read Arto’s texts though, the double blue tick on whatsapp mocking Arto whenever he checks the conversation.

He swallows hard. Contemplates calling again. Feels the horrid twist in his gut turning into prickling anger, the sort which makes it hard to stand still, the sort which makes him want to scream.

He pushes away from the window and glances down at his phone. Still no reply. He tries to take in a deep breath but can’t, instead turning and hurling his phone across the room. It hits the brick wall behind his bed, bouncing down onto his black sheets. It doesn’t break - of course it doesn’t, Tony made it - and just sits there, screen still lit up and showing the background of him, Tony and Steve at Coney Island.

Coney Island. They haven't been there in years. They haven't been anywhere in weeks, really. Steve has been off being a superhero and Tony has been working and working and working. No time for family outings, really.

No time for Arto, it feels like.

“Fuck you,” Arto tells the phone, his voice cracking, and then he storms out of the room and heads down to the communal floor.

Unfortunately, the two people he’s looking for aren't present, which just compounds his bad mood into a terrible one. Sam is at the counter doing a jigsaw puzzle, Bucky is on the phone with a very pissed off expression in place, Clint is at the coffee maker and Anna is beelining for the Christmas tree, eyes fixed on the baubles. She’s not got the hang of walking properly yet - she tends to toddle along at an ever-increasing speed until she barrels into something or someone.

Clint chokes into his mug and twists to put it down before lunging towards Anna, but Arto gets there first. He darts in front of her so she crashes into his legs rather than the tree, clinging onto his jeans and treading all over his feet as she tries to keep going despite him being a pretty hefty roadblock.

“The baubles are not for you,” he tells her, bending down to pick her up.

“Tee!” she says, pointing over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, holding her close. “Tree.”

“Tow, tow, tow,” she says happily, tiny hands smacking at his collarbones. She leans in for a cuddle, resting her head on his shoulder. The lump in his throat comes back. Maybe he should just invite Anna on the trip Tony’d got him for Christmas. That’d serve Peter right.

Maybe he should tear up the tickets. That’d serve Tony right.

“Good catch, Short-Round,” Clint says from right behind him. “Tree’s coming down tomorrow so she’ll stop trying to eat the baubles.”

“Then she’ll just go back to eating your car keys.”

“Good point,” Clint grins. “You get hold of Parker? He allowed to go with you?”

Arto just shrugs. “Where’s Dad?”

Clint looks at him for a long moment but doesn’t say anything more about Peter and the vacation. “Which dad?”

“Tony Dad.”

“In the workshop,” Clint says with an apologetic grimace as Arto grits his teeth. Tony has been in the workshop non-stop for _days_. He even nearly worked through Christmas, and Steve had been pissed as all hell about it.

“Steve Dad?”

“Gone to get groceries,” Clint says, leaning in to gently kiss Anna’s head. She sits up at that, grinning at him and waving, shoving the fingers of her other hand into her mouth. “You okay?”

Arto nods, passes Anna over. He wants to keep her close but he knows he needs to talk to someone about the horrible feelings twisting in his gut, and he can't take Anna into the workshop. “Going to find Tony,” he mutters and walks away from Clint before Clint hugs him or something stupid because then he’ll start to cry in front of Bucky and Sam.  

The workshop doors are locked when he gets down there. Unable to see where Tony is, he presses in his code but is met with a red light and an apology from Jarvis. Arto’s about at the end of his admittedly short tether so he resorts for banging on the glass with his fist, despite Jarvis’s alarmed protests.

Tony appears like a jack-in-the-box, standing up so he’s visible over the swathe of holograms and medical screens he’s got set up. He looks seriously angry and that doesn’t abate as he spots Arto. “Cut it out!” he mouths, making a slashing motion across his throat.

Arto kicks the door. Tony’s mouth drops open in affront so Arto kicks it again. It cracks, a single line splintering up from where his foot connected with the glass.

Somewhere, an alarm goes off. Jarvis is talking but Arto doesn’t give a shit what Jarvis has to say. Peter isn’t talking to him and no-one in this dumb house cares, so Arto is going to _make_ them care-

Tony opens the door to the workshop. “Cut the alarms,” he says to the ceiling, then turns concerned eyes on Arto. “So the busting down doors thing is usually your dad’s game. What’s wrong?”

Arto doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t even really know what _it_ is, by this point. He feels so stupid and small and lost. He shrugs.

The exasperation comes back. “You came down here to smash open the door and you don’t know why?” Tony asks, edging into incredulous. “I thought we were over this, Art.”

“You nearly missed Christmas,” Arto accuses.

“Whoa,” Tony says, holding up a hand. “Whoa, are you still mad about- okay. Yeah. That’s on me. I was working.”

“You’re always working,” Arto snaps.

Tony just stares at him. “Where’s Steve?”

“He’s out so you’ll have to actually deal with me for once,” Arto says spitefully, and feels a jab of vindication as Tony jerks back.

His jaw works and then he sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Okay, point made,” he says. “Let me shut this all down and then I’ll come up with you.”

He turns away and Arto immediately feels a horrid clashing mixture of guilt at being mean to his dad and relief-slash-gladness that he’s getting his own way. He follows Tony into the workshop, peering around at the multitude of holoscreens as Tony starts shutting them down with careful flicks of his fingers.

He cocks his head curiously as he reads what he can when he’s standing on the wrong side of the screen. The intrigue momentarily outweighs his annoyance. “What are nanites?”

Tony replies by sweeping away the remainder of the screens in one go. He looks tired, and suddenly old. It makes Arto shiver, unease crawling down his spine. Steve looks how he’s always looked, perpetually in his mid-twenties, but Tony’s face is more lined than ever and he’s got flashes of grey at his temples that the others tease him for. He rebuffs it with easy grins and jokes about being a silver fox, but in that moment it doesn't feel remotely funny to Arto at all.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Tony says. “Come on, clear out.”

Arto frowns. Tony doesn’t usually mind him being in here if he’s supervised. He takes another step, peering over the edge of the medical screen that’s next to the workbench.

“Hey,” Tony says, sharp. “Cut it out. Move.”

He steps forwards so Arto has no choice but to step back, away from the screens and benches. He’s confused at the amount of medical equipment that Tony’s got on his benches; in the place of the usual soldering irons and circuit boards are scalpels and syringes.

Tony sets a hand on his shoulder and guides him towards the door. “Go,” he says. “I’m just going to clear away.”

Arto doesn’t go. He stops and frowns. “You never clear away. Just lock the door?”

“Maybe this is my New Year’s resolution,” Tony says. “Go, I’ll be up in like five minutes.”

Arto folds his arms over his chest. “Promise?”

Tony smiles tiredly. “Have I ever let you down?”

Arto wants to snap back _‘yes’_ but he can’t bring himself to do it. Yeah, Tony is working a lot these days and he sometimes forgets about things, but he’s never really let Arto down. He stares at the floor and shakes his head jerkily.

He hears Tony come close. “Come here, Smart-Art,” he murmurs, pulling him round and into a hug. Arto stays stiff and uncooperative, even though he wants to just curl up on Tony’s knee and be hugged for the next three hours.

“Go,” Tony says, gently pressing a kiss to the top of Arto’s head. Arto nods dumbly then does as he’s told, leaving the workshop and heading for the stairs. He deliberately doesn’t look at the big crack in the door as he goes, nor does he look back to where Tony is back behind the screens.

Footsteps in front of him make him look up. It’s _Steve_ , coming towards him with a shopping bag in one hand and his phone in the other. His focus is all on Arto though, eyes concerned and brow furrowed. “Arto? What’s up, pal?”

Arto bursts into tears. He stops dead and lifts his hands up to cover his face. He feels awful, like everything in the world is wrong and he’s got no idea how to fix it.

Strong arms envelop him, and he slumps against Steve’s chest, face still covered. He wants to stop crying but he’s not sure it’s even physically possible at this moment. He’s not sure anything is physically possible at the moment which is why it’s probably a good thing that Steve decides to sit them down right there on the stairs, hauling Arto into his lap like he’s still ten and tiny.

“What’s happened?” Steve asks calmly, but Arto shakes his head, cheek pressing against Steve’s shoulder. “You need to tell me,” Steve presses gently. “It’s obviously something, Art.”

“It’s everything,” Arto chokes out. “Everything.”

“Shhh, okay, okay,” Steve says. “Don’t talk yet, just sit.”

Arto does. A few moments later he hears the swish-hiss of the workshop doors opening, and then there’s another body sitting close, draping itself over him and hugging tight.

“I’m sorry about the door,” Arto manages to say through his tears.

“Don’t sweat it,” Tony says quietly. “We got you.”

Arto nods, feeling exhausted. Everything still feels awful and he thinks he’s pretty awful too but he doesn’t have the energy or the wherewithal to try and figure it out right now. So instead he just slumps further down, closes his eyes and listens to the steady thump of his dad’s heartbeat under his ear.

 

* * *

 

Everyone shows for team dinner. Even Natasha, who has been back from DC for all of an hour. She arrives just in time but still in uniform, walking over to kiss Arto’s forehead and tutting at the state of his nail varnish. “You said you wouldn’t chew them,” she says, but she doesn't sound too cross. She looks carefully at him and Arto decides to look at his phone instead of her face because he loves her, but he doesn’t like the way she can read everything about him just by looking. He knows Steve doesn’t like it either.

Luckily for him, she doesn’t press him. She walks over to kiss Sam and then takes a seat beside Clint, leaning over to say hello to Anna. Anna has got cauliflower on her forehead and is tussling with Bucky over a spoon. Bucky is covered in more vegetables and is looking pained as he tries to take the spoon from her. Predictably, he gives up and lets her have it her way. “Fine, feed yourself,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

Next to Arto, Steve snorts with laughter. Bruce makes some comment about the mechanics of Bucky’s arm withstanding mashed potato. Tony chips in with a joke that has Clint laughing. Arto’s attention slides away, back to where his phone is on his knee, hidden by the edge of the counter. He’s not supposed to have it while they’re eating but he needs to see if Peter has text him back yet-

Nothing. Just the same blue ticks indicating a read message.

He swallows hard. Starts to type _if you don’t want to talk to me_ then deletes it.

“Hey,” Steve says, gently reprimanding. “You know the rule.”

Arto continues to stare at his phone. “Just checking one thing.”

“No, Art,” Steve says, firmer. “It can wait.”

Arto shoves the phone back in his pocket before Steve actually takes it off him. He picks up his fork and goes back to poking at his dinner, not remotely interested in vegetables. He wants to eat pizza and donuts and the box of pop-tarts that he knows Clint has hidden in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

He drops his fork, abruptly wanting nothing more than to go lock himself in his room with incognito mode on his phone and Jarvis banned from recording. And then has a moment to despair because a moment ago he was thinking about poptarts and now he’s thinking about sex and he’s got no idea how or why he’s gone from a to b. God, if he could just kill his own body for the way it’s behaving right now he would. Kill it and donate it to medical science - actually, scratch that, scientists suck dick unless they’re Bruce.

 _Don’t use suck dick as an insult,_ he tells himself fiercely. _People can suck dick if they want to._

And double great, now he’s thinking about being unfair to gay people and naturally that makes him think about his parents and he’s now gone from thinking about poptarts to sex to his dads and now he’s definitely going to go and kill himself, thanks.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. He scrambles for it, utterly ignoring Steve’s look of exasperation. His heart leaps and then swiftly plummets as he sees it’s only Omari texting him, not Peter.   

_History essay. Significant non-human role models of 20th C. Who did you pick_

Arto grits his teeth so hard he actually hears the noise of them grinding. When they’d been assigned the essay nearly every kid in the room had twisted around to look at him and he just knew most of them would end up writing about his dad. One shithead had actually come up to him and asked him if he could have an interview with Steve, and Arto had replied rudely enough for Logan to give him a lunchtime detention.

He stares down at the text, wanting to ignore it but knowing how shitty it feels to be ignored. He doesn’t want to take it out on Omari. His life is rough enough anyway.

 _The mutant who wrote to congress about the bathroom laws_ he texts back.

_Cool Im writing about Bucky_

Arto’s insides do a strange little wallop at that. Bucky will shit a brick if he knows Omari is planning on handing in an essay about him, and Arto’s kind of ridiculously proud. On the other hand, Omari’s answer throws him a little off balance because Bucky is _his family._ No sooner has he thought it than he’s remembering all those times Omari has been spent time with them, Bucky carrying him so his scales didn’t get in the snow, sitting with him and playing X-box, picking him up when he fell and helping brush off the dirt.

Great, now Arto feels super-awful. Bucky and Clint are like Omari’s friends too and Arto’s so petty and stupid about it that he probably doesn’t deserve any of them.

He texts Omari a string of multi-coloured hearts and barely has time to hit send before a hand is closing around his phone and tugging it away from him.

“No,” he yelps, trying to snatch it back. “Steve!”

“You know the rule,” Steve says.

“The rule is fucking stupid,” Arto snaps back before he can help himself. There’s a beat of silence around the table and then Arto pushes away from the counter and walks off, needing to just get _out._ As he goes he hears Steve saying _‘well thanks for the backup’_ and Tony snapping back at him.

Fuck.

He goes to his room and throws himself onto his bed, curling up small and wishing that he knew how to make everything better.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up the next morning feeling groggy and unsettled after a night of broken sleep, brief catnaps punctuated by strange dreams about a weird white room, the ground trembling beneath his hands and the smell of smoke on the air. He ignores it and drags himself through the shower before heading to find breakfast. Just like Clint said, the tree and decorations are gone, and it reminds him that the holidays are nearly over; four more days and he’s back at school. The very thought makes him feel sick because on Thursday he’s supposed to be back at Midtown and that means facing up to Peter who now hates him.

Stupid mainstream school. He should never have asked Tony if he could go.

Swinging his legs out of the bed, he spots his phone on his bedside table, carefully placed there while he slept. He snatches it up and feels another dull blow to his stomach as he finds a text from Omari, one from La’Taya from his Midtown math class but nothing from Peter.

Whatever. He doesn’t even care.

The communal kitchen is empty when he gets down there, looking spotlessly clean in a way that suggests someone has been doing their stupid stress cleaning thing again. He hopes it isn’t Steve.

He gets his tablet and opens up the old app which shows him where everyone is in the tower: Bruce and Tony are in the workshop (no fucking suprises there), Clint, Bucky and Anna are on their floor, Sam and Steve are out of the building at work, and Natasha is in her quarters. The faded logos for Thor, Jane, Pepper and Rhodey are still there, even though Arto knows they’re not living in the tower right now. Tony needs to update this thing, include a section for ‘on the West Coast’ and ‘Asgard.’

He steals the box of poptarts for his breakfast, goes back to his room to play on his X-box. Connects to X-box live, finds only Arkash and Dwayne online so logs off again and plays campaign mode on his own. It grows boring quickly, almost boring enough that he contemplates finishing his homework.

He decides to go find Natasha instead.

She does her usual thing of not letting him in when she opens the door, standing in the gap of the doorway so he can’t just barge in like he does to Clint. Well, he’s probably strong enough to barge past Nat but he’s not a maniac so he doesn’t.

“I’m bored,” he says by way of greeting.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Sounds like your problem, not mine.”

Normally he would grin and tell her that he’s everyone’s problem, but today he just can’t do it. Between Peter ignoring him and Tony’s ever-increasing isolation in the workshop and the stupid anxious curl in his belly, he can’t. He does try, but he barely gets the first words out before he feels his voice crack.

He tries to clear his throat and shrug his shoulders. Natasha just observes him quietly for a moment and then leans back into her rooms, grabbing her coat.

“Well I’m bored of paperwork too,” she says, pulling her apartment door closed. “Let’s go. Get your coat.”

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“Well, I’m going to get my nails done and get bagels,” she says. “You can tag along, I guess.”

Arto nods. “Can we take the stingray?”

Natasha gives him a withering look. “You expect me to go on the subway when school’s still out?” she asks. “Of course we’re taking the car, unless you want to take the bike.”

Arto shakes his head. “Too cold.”

“The stingray it is then,” she smiles, and Arto is suddenly very grateful for her, even if she is a mind-reader. “You want to say goodbye to Tony before we go?”

Arto thinks back to yesterday, when Tony has been so annoyed at him for interrupting. He shakes his head quickly. “I’ll go get my coat,” he mumbles.

“Meet me in the garage then,” she says, no fussing about him acting weird, no trying to talk or give him hugs. She just tells him what to do and expects that he’ll do it, and today that seems like the easiest thing to do, and so he does.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later and they’re sitting in a place that advertises itself as a ‘high-end beauty lounge.’ It’s manned completely by women and is full of women and Arto feels very out of place, sitting on a stool next to Natasha’s chair with his shoulders hunched over and his hands in his pockets so no-one can see the embarrassing state of his nail varnish. Natasha seems completely at ease, sitting back while a young girl with so-blond-it’s-almost-white hair starts on a hand massage and manicure.

“Scared of being recognised?” Natasha asks.

Arto shakes his head, dipping his chin down into the collar of his coat and biting at the zip. “My nails are a mess,” he mumbles.

Natasha doesn’t look at him but she almost-smiles at the admission. “We’ll get yours done after then,” she says simply.

It’s like someone’s caught a hook just behind his bellybutton and _pulled_ ; Arto feels it right in his very core. He looks around at the salon, at the smiling and relaxed women, feeling the hook pull tighter. Could he? But - he’s never been embarrassed about wearing nail varnish, it’s just a habit he’s had since he was like seven, and no-one at school dares say anything to him about it because a) his dads are Captain America and Iron Man and b) Arto could knock them the fuck out himself if he were so inclined. He wouldn’t, because Steve would hate it if he did and probably never talk to him ever again, but Arto and the bullies know he could, and that’s enough for now.

“They’ve got glitter-polish,” Natasha sing-songs.

“Fine,” Arto huffs, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. The snag in his belly turns to excitement. “Me next.”

Knowing that he’s going to be in the chair soon, he finds himself utterly entranced by what the woman is doing. He tries to keep out of her way but before long he’s asking probably way too many questions, learning more about gel-polishes and acrylic overlays than he thought was possible. Natasha endures it with a small smile on her face, even though this is probably her me-time for relaxing or whatever. Arto barely cares; he’s too excited.

He’s practically vibrating with it by the time he and Natasha swap places. He knows a few of the women in the salon are looking at him so he just stares back in challenge until they look away. Natasha swats him gently on the shoulder as he does, taking up his vacated stool.

“God, you’re just like Steve,” she huffs. “There is literally no reason for this to be a fight yet you’re finding one.”

“They’re looking at me,” Arto defends.

“You’re a teenage boy, who is pushing six-foot and probably heading towards one-eighty,” Natasha says, reaching for a magazine and flipping through it. “Not the regular clientele, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah but they don’t need to look at me.”

“People notice what’s different,” Natasha shrugs. “Oh look, Taylor Swift has a new boyfriend.”

“Don’t talk shit about Taylor Swift, I’ll tell Steve,” Arto says.

The woman doing his nails stifles a laugh. “Okay, what do we want today?”

“He wants a full manicure and gel polish in some horrendous glittery shade, probably,” Natasha says before he can even start to think ‘oh fuck, what do I say?’ “Right?”

“Right,” Arto says, and the woman gets to work.

She’s about halfway through when Arto has a moment to swallow hard and think that this is possibly more than just a habit, a leftover from when the adults were trying to stop him biting his nails. He’s enjoying this. He likes the way it looks, the way the light catches on the glitter, the smooth shine of the overcoat.

“Clint says I’m a weirdo,” he blurts out, eyes fixed on his hand, held carefully between the woman’s.

Natasha looks over the top of the magazine at him. “You are definitely a weirdo, but this does not make you a weirdo,” she says. “You hear me?”

He does, but he doesn’t quite get it. He’s a boy, getting his nails done. That’s pretty weird.

Natasha notices his silence and puts the magazine down. “What’s going on, Rogers?”

“Rogers-Stark,” Arto mutters back, and huffs out a breath. “I dunno. Peter hasn't text me back.”

“In how long?”

“Like four days. Since just after New Year.”

“He’s probably busy,” Natasha says. “It’s possibly not anything you’ve done.”

“I wanted to ask him-” Arto starts, but doesn’t finish. Thinking about the vacation and the tickets sitting on his shelf just makes him feel sick and twisted up. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Sure,” Natasha says. “Shall we talk about how the Young Avengers including the love of your life are back in for training soon?”

Arto groans, feeling embarrassment flush up over his face. “Nat, you said you wouldn’t.”

“But it’s fun watching you get all red,” she teases. “But seriously, the whole team are back in on Wednesday.”

“It was a crush, and it was stupid and I’m over it,” Arto says forcefully, thinking back to the days of liking-Kate, trying to sneak glances of the Young Avengers in training and feeling his belly swoop every time she swung her glossy hair over her shoulder. “I don’t even like her anymore.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t!” he protests. “I’m not into girls - no, I mean I am, I’m straight, I would be into girls if I cared but I don’t care. I don’t want to be in a relationship, I’ve got more important things to think about right now.”

“Like how Peter isn't texting you back? Are you sure you don’t have a crush on him?”

Arto scowls at her. “Shut up,” he says. “Don’t make it weird, he’s my friend. And I don’t know how many times I have to say it, I’m not gay.”

“You could-”

“I’m not bisexual either, Nat, will you please stop,” he says, even as a nasty voice in the back of his head points out that he’s shouting about being straight while getting his nails done in pink glitter polish.

“Okay, straight, gottit,” Nat says. “But not interested in dating.”

“No,” Arto says. “I’m interested in beating the record for the Manhattan Island Marathon Swim, and being able to free dive for forty minutes. I’ve got goals, Nat, not wasting my time with stupid dating.”

“Well you’ve got it all figured out,” Nat says with a strange little smile. “You registered for the swim yet?”

Arto nods. “Well, I’m technically not allowed to register for the actual event because I’m...well, I’m me and I’m also a minor,” he says. “Dad’s pulled some strings. I’m allowed to accompany the event, as long as I’ve got a one to one support unit and stuff. And, uh, something to do with sponsorship being donated to the City Parks Department or something, I’m not allowed to make money off it.”

“Makes sense,” Natasha says. “You think you can do it?”

“I know I can do it, it’s only twenty-eight miles, it’s just how quick I can do it.”

Natasha huffs out a laugh. “Only twenty-eight, miles, sure.”

“I can do it!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” she says. “I doubt my ability to keep Tony calm while you swim twenty-eight miles.”

Arto grins at that but it fades quickly. _Tony’ll probably be too busy to even come and watch_ he thinks spitefully, and then feels like a jackass for even thinking it.

“Nat?” he says quietly. She’s gone back to her magazine. “Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

She flips a page, wriggles to get comfy in her chair. “You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they get home, they’ve been rumbled. Arto only knows this because when he and Natasha get off the elevator on the communal floor, Tony turns and holds up his phone, waving a picture of them leaving the nail salon.

“So, you got papped,” Tony says by way of greeting. “TMZ say that hot pink is totally not your colour.”

“TMZ have no say in Arto’s choices,” Natasha says tartly. “Nice to see you out of the workshop.”

Tony gives her a _look_ and walks over to pull Arto into a hug. Arto clings to him, arms slotted under Tony’s and his chin hooked over his shoulder. “I like the pink,” Tony whispers and Arto huffs out a laugh.

“But?”

“But maybe wear at least a Steve-level disguise next time? You have stolen at least eight pairs of my sunglasses, you might as well wear them.”

Arto sighs, pushes himself back away from Tony. He’s the same height as him now, but still feels super tiny when Tony holds onto him, both hands on the side of his neck.

He takes the phone, looks at the article. _‘Arto Stark-Rogers goes for MANICURE in Brooklyn - What will Cap say?’_ is the headline and he wants to throw the phone just from reading that. At least he’s being called by his own name now, rather than ‘Cap’s kid,’ which he usually is.  

The article doesn’t say anything about him being strange and weird for having his nails done. In fact, it’s painfully nice about it, applauding him for breaking down gender boundaries and ‘just doing his own thing.’ It does say that he should have gone with a deep blue or gold though.

And it does seem to think that Steve is going to lose his marbles over it, which doesn’t make him feel great.

He shoves the phone back at Tony. “If it’s so okay for me to be having my nails done, why are they bothering to report on it?”

Tony sighs. “They can’t call you out on it without getting in trouble, so they’re throwing facts up in a particular order so people do the judgmental shit on their own.”

“Can you sue them?”

“Don’t think so.”

Arto heads for the fridge, yanking it open and gazing into it without even looking. He remembers being in the nail bar, that sensation catching inside him, that roll of excitement and happiness that had snagged hard. He can’t shake it free, it’s like he’s caught on something and he doesn’t want to have to give it up. At the same time, he kind of wishes it would go away, because it’s making him feel hot and shamed and like he needs to crawl away and hide.

He decides to ignore that complex contradiction and stick with his ‘I do what I want’ attitude, like the whole nail varnish thing is just about being obnoxious. He grabs a fudge-flavoured milkshake that is probably Clint’s, kicking the fridge shut with his heel.

“You always give me the whole, be proud of who you are, thing.”

“Are you a person who likes getting their nails done?”

Arto feels his temper flash and flare. He manages to keep it in check. “Why else would I do it?”

Tony shrugs. “Boredom? Habit? Because you’d started chewing them again?” He looks like he’s got something else to add but then stops and shakes his head like he’s waking himself up. His attention goes back to Arto’s nails. “So these are the real deal, huh? Ran out of your own polish?”

“No,” Arto says. “I went with Nat and got mine done too, why are you making it into a big deal? You’re being like TMZ, stop it.”

Tony just shakes his head again. He looks super tired. Arto reaches out to run his finger over the dark shadows under Tony’s eyes, then scritches his newly pinked nails through Tony’s goatee, tugging at the grey.

“Look, they’re sparkly,” Arto says and Tony huffs out another not-quite laugh and folds his fingers around Arto’s.

“Almost as ostentatious as me,” he says, and only an hour earlier Arto was sitting in Natasha’s car staring at his nails and falling in love but there’s something in Tony’s voice that rubs him up the complete wrong way.

“Whatever,” he snaps, dropping his hands and walking away. Ostentatious, really? Couldn’t Tony have just called then cute or something, not insulted him by saying his nails were _ostentatious_.

“Arto!” Tony sounds utterly exasperated. “Come back, are you actually kidding me right now?”

“No,” Arto snaps back. “You can’t even be nice to me in the ten minutes you see me every day before you fuck off back to the workshop.”

“Low blow,” Tony says. “Okay, we’re two for two on days in which we’ve yelled at each other. What’s going on?”

Arto doesn’t reply. He stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, avoiding Tony’s tired gaze. He doesn't know what to say. He knows his dad is super important and invents all sort of shit which helps the planet but right now he just wants Tony to be _here._ Wants him lying in bed until mid-afternoon so Arto can lounge out next to him with the sketchpad and crayons, grinning when Steve comes in to roll his eyes at them; wants him to invite Arto back into the workshop so they can tinker with his bike; wants him lying around on the couches, sharing popcorn and pulling holes in every sci-fi film they watch.

He misses him.

But he’s angry so of course he decides to keep his mouth shut, too resentful to try and explain it.

It’s Tony who breaks the silence. “Fine,” he sighs. “Work it out, then-”

Something not too distant from fear works down Arto’s spine. “You’re just-” he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish. _You’re just going to walk away from me_ sounds super childish. _You’re going to abandon me again_ sounds even worse.

“I’m going to give you time and space to work whatever it is out, because I can’t read your mind-”

“You don’t care enough to work it out!”

Tony just stares at him. “You think I don’t care about you,” he says flatly. “Arto, I care about you more than any person on this planet, where is this coming from-”

“You nearly missed Christmas! You told me to go away yesterday!” Arto’s knows he’s shouting but he can’t stop himself. It’s like a dam bursting, every stupid nasty thought has been amplified by ten and is pouring out of him. “And now Peter isn’t talking to me and you’re not listening to me and you’re making a big deal about-”

He barely notices the shock on Tony’s face. “What, Parker isn’t talking to you? Since when?”

“Who gives a shit?!” Arto bellows, and he’s turning away and storming off. He’s so angry he’s shaking and it feels terrifying, this nasty wicked snarl of anger that makes him want to hurt and scream. He needs to get away, to hide.

He heads for the bolt hole, the tiny space built into his room that no-one, not even Steve and Tony, are allowed in. For the past six months he’s been adamant that he doesn’t need it anymore, that he’s too old for it. Now, he squeezes through the tiny hatch and presses himself into the corner of the dark space, pulling the hatch door closed behind him. He gropes around and finds the blanket, yanking it up from underneath him and covering his face with it, wishing stupidly that he could just hide here until everything makes sense again.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s super late by the time he comes out. Steve is back: he knocked on the wall and then left when Arto didn’t respond. Clint appeared to slide a boxed pizza into the bolthole a few hours later. Arto was determined to not eat it but caved after only about three minutes of resolutely ignoring the smell of pepperoni and ham.

He uses his tablet app to check where everyone is and finds himself skulking into the gym. Well, he would say he walks in like a normal person but the moment he steps past the threshold Bucky calls “why are you skulking around?”, so maybe he missed the mark.

“I’m not skulking,” he glares, leaning on the edge of the boxing ring.

Bucky just snorts derisively. He brings his hands up, scowling at the punching back like it’s said something nasty about Clint or looked at Anna wrong. He jabs at it, the sounds of his knuckles hitting reinforced canvas loud in the quiet of the room.

“Why are you down here?”

“Anna has decided that sleeping is for suckers,” Bucky says, the last word punctuated with a vicious punch. “And her crying makes me want to cry, so here I am.”

“What? She’s been sleeping through for weeks.”

Bucky frowns, stilling the bag. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “Doc reckons is some new separation anxiety or some shit. She’ll get over it.”

“And you’ll get over it by destroying punching bags?”

Bucky snorts with laughter. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, walking over and leaning into the ring to grab a bottle of water. He cracks the plastic cap off, frowning as he looks Arto over. “Well you look like shit.”

“Fuck you.”

Bucky responds by squirting the water right into his face. Arto splutters and tries to shove him away, but Bucky is just grinning like an asshole.

“Bucky!”

“You cuss at me and there’s consequences, kiddo,” Bucky says, recapping the bottle and tossing it to Arto who just about manages to catch it. Bucky wipes across his forehead with his wrist, turns back to the punching bag. “Nice nails.”

Arto pulls a face. “I’m gonna chew them off.”

“Waste of money,” Bucky says. “Why?”

“Tony was being an idiot about them and the news was being an idiot about it. They said Steve would be pissed about it.”

“Steve wouldn’t give a shit if you decided to wear a glittery pink onesie for the rest of your life,” Bucky says, taking a swing at the bag. “And the news talks shit all the time, why is that suddenly bothering you?”

“Because Tony said my nails were dumb and he was all like yeah everyone will judge you and why are you suddenly wearing nails it’s a stupid habit.”

“I bet you fifty bucks he didn’t say it was a stupid habit.”

“Fine, but he basically said it,” Arto says, then, “He’s been working all the time.”

Bucky pauses. “He has, kinda,” he admits. “Wow, deja vu. Me and Steve had this conversation like a week ago. So if it’s any consolation, you’re handling it better than Steve?”

“And Peter isn't talking to me.”

Bucky fixes him with the sort of look that reminds Arto of Natasha. It’s all searching and quiet and makes him feel like his brain is being X-rayed.

Finally, Bucky speaks. “You have a lot of shit going on right now,” he says. Arto just nods mutely, feeling strangely grateful for the fact Bucky isn't trying to analyse it or joke about it. He's just… agreeing.

“You feel better after bolt-holing all day?”

Arto shakes his head. Bucky sighs and then he's walking over to the ring again and picking up his roll of wrap. He turns, unwinding it in a vaguely menacing manner. “I think you'll feel a bit better after hitting the shit out of something.”

Arto jolts back in surprise. “I'm not allowed.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “You think it'll help?”

“I'm not allowed.”

“Well I'm not going to tell,” Bucky says. “You think I'm crazy?”

Arto bites his lip. Lifts his hand to his mouth, not to bite on his nails but just to have it close enough so that he could if he wanted to. He looks between Bucky and the punching bag and then decides to just go for it.

He holds both his hands out, not looking Bucky in the eye. He still catches the edge of Bucky’s grin in his peripheral vision though, and he feels it as Bucky takes hold of his hand in his metal one, rearranging his fingers so he can wrap them.

“Good job you didn't get extensions on your nails,” Bucky says. “This wouldn't work if they were long.”

Arto turns his eyes from the wall to look at his own hands, watching as Bucky works. “Do you think they're stupid?”

“Nope.”

Arto stares at him. While ‘nope’ is what he wanted to hear, he kinda feels like he needs more. 

“And?”

Bucky’s mouth twitches, like he knows exactly what Arto is after. “Okay. I think they're bright, which suits you and the glitter is great. But a lot of people are going to start looking at you because you're blurring traditional gender boundaries and a lot of people are going to say it's gay as shit.”

“Pink glitter polish doesn't make someone gay! You're like the opposite of pink glitter and you're gay as shit.”

“Never said they were right, I just said that’s what they’d say,” Bucky says. “Come on. Gloves.”

“You don't wear gloves.”

“I’m hard as nails,” Bucky says. “You’re like a half-grown super-soldier. And your dad may be gay as shit but he’s also scary as shit, so you’re wearing gloves. I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“You’re not scared of him,” Arto says dismissively. “You’re not scared of anything.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, like he’s just agreeing because he doesn’t want to get in an argument. Arto would call him out on how annoying it is to be spoken to like he’s a kid, but he wants very badly for Bucky to let him hit things.

So he keeps his mouth shut as Bucky tugs a pair of boxing gloves onto his hands, listens carefully as Bucky tells him how to stand, how to hit. He can feel the anticipation swelling and cresting inside him, alongside all the nasty rotten feelings from the past few weeks.

“Go for it,” Bucky says quietly.

He does. He takes a swing at the punching bag and hears the thud with a dull satisfaction, notes the way he can feel it in his hands and all the way up his arms, even in his elbows and shoulders.

“Call that a hit?” Bucky says, steadying the bag.

Arto scowls at him. Swings again. Harder.

“That’s it,” Bucky says, approving. “Go low, come on.”

He does. Its electrifying: the sensation of taking it all out on the bag, the thrill of knowing he’s not supposed to be doing this, the idea that he’s allowed to just let go for once.

“Feels good,” Arto says between hits.

“Course it does,” Bucky says. “Why do you think I’m letting you do it?”

Arto doesn’t reply. He just focuses his attention on his fists and the punching bag, slowly bleeding out every bit of frustration and anger with each hit, Bucky standing as a quiet supportive presence beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at just over 4k this is the shortest chapter I've written in years, but the story kinda naturally broke itself up here and also this was exhausting to write. Quite enough feels for one chapter I think.
> 
> Again, please remember that Arto is a teenager and is not a completely reliable narrator. What he thinks is happening may not be completely accurate as he's not got the full picture, though being a teenager he obviously thinks he does. And his reactions are very knee-jerk and emotionally driven as well. 
> 
> Thank you to Liz for flailing about Steve 'awful-liar' Rogers and Tony 'king-of-fronting' Stark with me. Much appreciated.

Arto wakes after a much better night’s sleep. Well, he’s woken up twice by dreams but at least they’re dreams about the Victoria’s Secret model that had been plastered on one of the billboards in Times Square, rather than dreams about that uncomfortable sterile white room burning down.

By the time he’s got that out of his system, it’s mid-morning and he’s starving. He’d go straight down for breakfast but Bucky always narrow-eyes him after he’s had what Steve determinedly calls ‘alone time’, like he can literally smell it on him or some shit. It’s beyond embarrassing - actually, it’s beyond mortifying because he knows Steve has the same enhanced senses as Bucky, so if Bucky is smelling him or picking up on his body language or reading his mind or whatever, then Steve is too.

So, thirty minute shower takes precedence over breakfast, as much as it pains him.

Which in turn means by the time he gets down to the kitchen, hunger levels are critical and he doesn’t hesitate to barge past Sam, Bruce and Clint to get to food.

“Tow!” Anna shrieks as she spots him. “Tow!”

He turns and smiles faintly at her. “Ar-to,” he says clearly. “Arrrr-to.”

“Tow,” she beams, banging her hands against the plastic tray of her high chair.

“Sure,” he says, leaving his bagels temporarily unattended as he goes over to kiss her. She leans into him, nuzzling into his shoulder in a hug which leaves him covered in jam.

“She’ll get it,” Clint yawns, offering her another piece of toast. “Bucky’s now dada, which is two syllables.”

Arto’s not a hundred percent sure on syllables but he’s not about to say anything because he needs to finish his breakfast and he’s not got time to flirt with the possibility of adults going _‘oh SHIT that’s definitely something you should know, get Arto into MORE SCHOOL.’_ He just keeps his head low, finishing his breakfast as Clint tries to get Anna to eat hers, and Sam and Bruce chat idly about the news.

Clint waves at him across the table, snagging his attention. “So what’s your plan today, Art?”

Arto shrugs. Omari has text him suggesting they hang out, but the conversation with Peter is still tauntingly silent. Despite that, the sharp sting of Peter’s continued absence has dulled into an ache. He’ll get over it, as long as he doesn't think about Midtown, going back to Midtown or possibly seeing Peter at Midtown.

“Dunno,” he says. Anna bats away the proffered piece of toast and then lets out another unholy shriek as Bucky wanders in, coat still on and cheeks pink from the cold.

“You put that metal hand on me and you die,” Clint tells him, craning his head up for a kiss. “Hey babe.”

“Whatever,” Bucky rolls his eyes but does lean down to kiss Clint. “I got it," he says, holding up bags from the store, “and also got her a thing.”

“You’re gonna spoil her,” Clint says, exasperated.

“Do not care in the slightest,” Bucky says, shrugging out of his coat and then picking up one of the carrier bags. He pulls out a tiny pink headband that’s got a sequined star on the front, grinning as he loops his hands into it then deftly slides it onto Anna’s head. She immediately grabs for it, tugging to try and get it off.

“That’s never going to stay on,” Clint laughs.

“Course it will,” Bucky says, gently moving Anna’s hands away. “Headband stays on, baby.”

“Dada,” Anna protests. “Dada, da.”

Arto stares at Anna, at her fluffy dark hair that’s been rucked up by the headband. She’s still curiously tugging at it and Bucky and Clint are fussing with her, smiling and laughing. Even Sam is coming over, leaning over Clint’s shoulder and saying how damn cute she is. Christ, any more talk about Anna being cute and Bucky will actually explode with pride.

Arto isn’t thinking about how cute his baby sister is, he’s thinking about how her headband matches his nails.

It’s the exact same shade of pink. Exactly. Like, he could camouflage his nails into the headband and never find them again. Exactly the same. He stares at it, and he can’t help but think that he wants one too. The same feeling from the nail bar hooks into his gut, pulling tight and making him feel all shivery and weird.

 _Stop being weird,_ he tells himself, even as he’s picturing what he’d look like wearing Anna’s headband. It’s sit right across his forehead and pull across the tops of his ears and how would it look against his blond hair and not Anna’s brown-

 _Stop it,_ he tells himself more forcefully, clenching his fists so he can’t see his nails. _Stop making this weird._

“Art, you okay?”

That’s Sam, sounding careful and concerned. And he’s not in the same mind-reading league as Bucky and Natasha but he’s still good at knowing when people are out of sorts.

So Arto does the only thing that makes sense, and runs away.

He heads to his dads’ room, planning on hiding behind one or both of them and sulking about stupid Bucky spoiling Anna and buying her things that Arto doesn't even want anyway-

And he barges in to find Steve sitting on the edge of their fully made bed, twisting his hands together as he stares out the window.

“Steve?”

Steve stands up reflexively, forcing a smile onto his face. “Hey, Art, you okay?”

His eyes are red. Oh god, he’s been crying. He’s been crying and he’s on his own. Arto feels a strange prickle of fear work down his spine and he feels suddenly very small.

“Dad?”

“What’s up?” Steve asks, still cheerful in that fake way that’s so obvious. “Sorry I missed you last night, I had paperwork to finish up and-”

“Why’re you sad?”

That stops Steve’s rambling. He cuts off mid flow, but then forces that smile back onto his face. “I’m not, I’m good,” he says. “How about you?”

Arto thinks of his unanswered texts, his panic about Anna and the fucking headband, his worry about Tony slipping away from them. He shakes his head, all of that dumb stuff vanishing when he’s faced with his dad being upset.

He nods, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Do you...do you want a hug?”

Steve’s smile slips into something smaller but more real. “Yeah,” he says heavily. “I’d like that, Art.”

Arto immediately jumps at him, making Steve laugh as Arto hits him, wrapping his arms tight around his chest. He’s still not as tall as Steve, even if he’s matched Tony. He closes his eyes tight, squishes Steve that bit harder.

“Jeez you’re getting strong,” Steve says with a huff.

“As strong as you?” Arto says.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve says, and Arto hides a smile in his shoulder. He pulls back, ready to make another joke about but Steve is still looking...off. Something not quite right in his expression, something too deep and hard for Arto to be able to fix with a joke. He needs backup.  

And he knows exactly where to find it.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, backup is locked in the workshop and Jarvis is not letting him in. Arto resorts to banging on the glass in frustration again, though he holds back on the kicking front. The crack from last time hasn't been fixed yet.

Tony comes to the door, looking weary but he does smile at Arto. “What’s up?”

“Steve’s sad,” Arto says without preamble. “I need you to come cheer him up.”

Tony’s face falls. He sighs, looking away. “Yeah, me and Steve…”

Arto’s stomach falls too. “Did you fall out?”

“No,” Tony says too quickly. “He just objected to me being locked in the workshop and he wasn't all that polite about it, you know how he gets-”

“Why _are_ you locked in the workshop?” Arto presses. “You’ve not been out properly in days.”

“Because me and Bruce think we’ve got something that could pretty much save the world, Art,” Tony tells him bluntly. “It’s technology being used in an unprecedented way and we think we could- well, I know we could help fix a lot of people up.”

“But,” Arto begins, but then shakes his head. He can’t say ‘ _but I need you more than the world,’_ and he has a feeling that _‘but Steve being happy is more important than the world’_ is also a dick thing to say.

“But Steve’s sad,” he chooses for saying. He swallows hard. Thinks about telling Tony about his silent phone and his crisis at breakfast time.

“He’ll be fine,” Tony says, and Arto catches the way his eyes flick back into the workshop.

“No, he’s not, he’s your husband and he’s crying and you have to come and help,” he says, voice getting louder and louder. “ _Tony_.”

“I can’t just drop everything-”

“You can!” Arto yells. “You need to-”

“ _You_ need to stop yelling at me,” Tony snaps, cutting right over him. Arto falls silent in shock; Tony never raises his voice at him, ever. Tony must feel a similar sense of shock because he just stares at Arto for a moment, lost.

“I know you’re trying to do the right thing here,” Tony finally says. “But you cannot jump in here without knowing the full story. You’re getting it all backwards. I promise you, I would not be spending this much time in here if it wasn’t super important-”  

Arto walks away. And the worst thing is, Tony doesn’t even come after him.

 

* * *

 

He goes back to the communal floor, flings himself onto the couches next to Sam. Clint is sitting on the floor with Anna lying on her changing mat in front of him; she’s still got her stupid headband on. Bucky is nowhere to be seen, which is probably a good thing considering the next thing Arto decides to say.

“Why’s she wearing that dumb headband anyway,” he snaps before he can think about what he’s actually saying. “Are you scared people won’t know she’s a girl?”

“Whoa,” Sam says in shock, leaning away from him and fixing him with an unimpressed stare. “Where’s the attitude coming from?”

Clint looks at Arto, clearly baffled. “Jesus, Short-Round, Bucky bought it her because he thought she’d look cute, what’s the problem?"

“Cute as shit, I think he said,” Sam says with a nod. “He was right.”

“Why’s it have to be pink?” Arto demands.

“What, like your nail varnish is?” Clint says, nonplussed. “Are you turning into a social justice warrior? Is that what’s happening here?”

Arto just turns over, pressing his face in the couch cushions and refusing to look at any of them. His brain is a mess, like he’s Alice falling down a rabbit hole of pink confusion. God, liking his nails was one thing but wanting Anna’s headband is another, more ridiculous thing.

He stays there, stubbornly hiding his face until he hears someone else coming into the room. He’s hoping for Tony, but is still pretty relieved when he works out that it’s Steve and Bucky.

“So, your child is having a meltdown,” Clint says conversationally. “I mean Steve’s child is having a meltdown. Buck, chill, our child is fine.”

Arto whips his head around to glare at Clint, but his murder-eye stare is blocked by Steve who is standing right in front of him with his arms folded across his chest. He still looks tired but at least he doesn't look like he’s been crying anymore.

“What’s this about?” Steve asks. “Peter? Or the nail-polish-”

“Just leave me alone!” Arto insists, going to grab a pillow and pressing it to his face. “It’s about nothing, there is nothing wrong.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky’s voice says, and Arto aims a kick towards where the voice came from.

“You kick anyone and there will be consequences,” Steve says, _very_ deliberately calm and quiet, and Arto freezes, then guiltily tucks his leg back in. “Better,” Steve says. “Okay. This has been going on long enough. I’m going to fetch Tony and we’re going to talk about why you’ve been so on edge the past few days.”

On one hand, Arto would rather jump off the roof than talk about his stupid pink-obsessed brain. But on the other, if both his dads are willing to actually come and be with him and maybe listen to the whole Peter thing, then he’s willing to try and talk.

He nods into the pillow but doesn’t take it away from his face. He hears Steve walking away.

“You want me to go, kid?” Sam asks. Arto think for a moment and then shakes his head. Sam’s pretty great at talking about feelings and he’s also really good at stopping Steve going off on one. He’s a guy that Arto would like to have in his corner.

“Okay,” Sam says. “Codeword is ‘Eagle’ if you want me to take Steve down a notch or two.”

Arto nods into his cushion. It’s too warm and clammy under there but he’ll be damned if he’s coming out until Steve and Tony get there.

He waits five minutes.

Then five more.

He takes the cushion away from his face. Sam meets his questioning expression and shrugs. “Maybe they’re… making up.”

 _So they did fall out,_ Arto thinks. God he’s so dumb. Going to Tony to try and make Steve happy when Tony was probably the reason that Steve was crying anyway? Fucking smooth.

“Buck, go find out what’s keeping them,” Sam suggests, and Bucky nods and goes.

Five more minutes pass.

Arto starts to feel sick.

Sam gets out his phone and does a terrible job of acting casual as he phones Nat. Arto hears the words _‘fight’_ and _‘backup’_ and promptly hates his stupid enhanced hearing.

Twenty-two minutes after Steve went to go get Tony and Arto cracks. He gets up and heads for the stairs, pulse thudding sickly in his chest as he dodges Sam's attempts to stop him. He runs down the stairs to the workshop, his frantic brain conjuring up more and more distressing images. Tony hurt, the workshop wrecked, Steve crying again, Tony gone-

He doesn't get to see what's in the workshop. He gets half a flight of stairs away and freezes as he hears shouting. Angry voices interrupting and overlapping each other. He can hear Steve bellowing, calling someone selfish, and Tony shouting right back at him.

"What the fuck would you have done if I'd not come down here?!"

"You know exactly what we're doing, and you know why-"

"You unbelievably selfish fucking asshole!"

Something breaks, the shattering of glass.

"You know what, this is boring, so predictable, I don't have time for you and your self-righteous face, this is nothing to do with you-"

"I'm shutting this down. Tony, move-"

"You are not, stop interfering with things you're scared of because you don't understand it-"

Arto runs. He runs all the way up to his room, pulling his phone out of his pocket. His hands are shaking as he finds Omari’s number and hits dial. He holds the phone to his ear, backing right up against the wall and feeling pretty much like his chest is caving in.

“Hey Art!”

And he slides down the wall in sheer giddy relief as Omari picks up. “Hi,” he manages to say, his voice trembling as much as his hands.

“Art? What’s wrong?”

“Steve and Tony,” Arto whispers. “Fighting.”

“Are you okay?” Omari asks, his softly quiet voice filled with worry.

“No, they’re really fighting, they’ve been weird for weeks and now they’re _screaming_ at each other.”

“Oh, no,” Omari says, sounding helpless. “Arto, that’s - that’s so bad.”

“I know,” Arto manages to get out. “I know, and everything’s so fucked up and I don’t know what to do.”

“You called me, that was the right thing to do,” Omari says, slightly louder. It’s like he’s taking control. “Arto, where are you?”

“In my room, they’re in the workshop.”

“Who else knows? Where’s Bucky? Where’s Clint?”

“I don’t know,” Arto says, and he starts to cry. He can hear Omari talking, tone wavering between frantic worry and forced calmness, trying to get Arto to calm down, trying to get him to go and find someone.

He doesn’t need to. He jerks his head up as he hears the sound of his bedroom door opening, and through his tears he sees Clint edging into the room. Clint doesn’t hesitate, just walks over to sit on the floor next to him, reaching out for the phone. Arto hands it over willingly. Clint lifts it to his ear with one hand, using his other to pull Arto around into him so Arto is slumped against him in an untidy sprawl of limbs, face in Clint’s chest as he sobs.

_Tony’s going to leave. Tony’s going to kick Steve out. They’re going to get divorced. They’re never going to stop fighting._

“It’s Clint. I’ve got him,” Clint is saying into the phone. “Yeah, you did great. Yeah, I’ll call you later.”

Arto can’t move, can’t even think. He wants to scream, to drown out the nasty voice in his head that is telling him that his family has fallen apart.

“Shhh,” Clint murmurs, both his arms now wrapped around Arto. “I got you. You’re okay. They’re just idiots who love each other so much they don’t know what to do with themselves.”

Arto clings to Clint even tighter, praying that he’s right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even when the tears finally stop, Arto doesn’t move. He just slumps down so he’s lying on his side with his shoulder between Clint’s legs, his head pillowed on his thigh. Clint has one hand on his shoulder and the other is stroking over his hair, slow and repetitive.

His head feels thick and woolly from crying and he thinks that if he sits up he’ll puke. The voice in his head is still there, rumbling in the background. It’s saying that it’s over. That he’ll be alone again. That Steve and Tony are never going to make up again.

It feels like hours later before anything else happens; as far as Arto knows it could have been hours or could just as easily have been minutes. He hears footsteps walking across his lounge and then the door swishes over the carpet.

Steve.

The moment Arto claps eyes on him, he starts to cry again. Steve just crumples, his shoulders slumping and his face falling, and then he’s there. He’s on his knees on the floor, holding his hands out but hesitating, like he’s scared Arto is going to push him away.

Arto is going to do no such thing. He pushes himself up and presses into Steve’s arms, wrapping his arms tight around his neck. Steve shushes him gently, one hand on the back of his head and the other arm around his middle. It’s exactly how he used to carry him when he was smaller, and it makes Arto cry even more.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Steve says, his own voice far too thick. “I got you.”

Arto manages to nod into his shoulder. Steve’s here. It’ll be okay.

“Arto, I need you to listen to me,” Steve says quietly. “When you can, I need you to sit back and listen to me.”

Arto nods dizzily and complies. He slides back and sits on his ass on the carpet, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Steve stays within touching distance, still sitting back on his heels.

“Okay?”

Arto is not, but he nods.

Steve takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His jaw is clenched, brow furrowed. “I...I’m going out for a few days,” he says.

Arto’s stomach goes cold. “Work?” he asks, coughing around the wet, closed up feeling in his nose and throat.

“No,” Steve says, looking down at his knees. “I need a few days to have some space from Tony.”

Arto feels his chin trembling, his lip quivering. He tries to fight it but hot tears run scalding tracks down his cheeks anyway. Steve reaches out to slide his hand onto Arto’s neck, thumb on his jaw.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “It's just-”

“No it’s not okay, you’re _leaving_.”

“I’m _not_ leaving,” Steve says, jaw going tight again. “I am not. I am just taking a few days so I don’t say anything to Tony that I’ll regret, because I love him and even if he’s done something-” Steve breaks off, clearly struggling. “We’ve had a disagreement,” he says, looking down. “We both got angry. We yelled. And now I need some time to get over it, so we can move past it. I shouldn’t be - god, I shouldn’t be putting you in this position. But I feel like I owe you an explanation and I'm not about to lie to you and say it's work or some other bullshit." He stops talking again, rakes a hand through his hair. "If I stay here, I’ll make it worse.”

It makes sense, in a confused sort of way. Tony’s time in the workshop. Steve trying to get him out. Tony refusing to come out and now _this_.

A spark of something - anger, maybe? - lights in Arto’s chest. His stomach goes tight.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What? No,” Steve says, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“I am coming with you and there is nothing you can say to stop me,” Arto says. His heart is going too quick. It feels strange, like he’s been swimming non-stop for miles and miles.

“No.”

“Yes!” Arto yells, and shoves at Steve, nearly knocking him back. “Peter hates me and Tony is obsessed with his stupid work and you’re sad so _I’m fucking coming with you!_ ”

It feels like jumping down a flight of stairs.

“No,” Steve repeats. “This is my issue, I am _not_ taking you away from your dad-”

“ _You_ are my dad and I am coming with you.”

“Arto-”

“Don’t go without me,” Arto says, grabbing for Steve’s hand. “Everything is stupid and fucked up and I don’t want you to go.”

Steve’s eyes are too bright. “Okay, I’ll stay,” he says, holding his free hand up. “I’ll just-”

“Think you should listen to the kid,” Clint chips in quietly.

Steve turns to look at him. “I am not taking Tony’s son away from him,” he says, so quiet that it sounds dangerous.

Clint doesn’t look away. Maybe being married to Bucky has developed him resilience to the death glares. “Tony has crossed a line,” Clint says. “And you know it.”

And Steve seems to deflate, his shoulders sagging again. He rubs his eyes with his fingers, then just gives up and covers them with his palm. He swallows hard, his adam’s-apple bobbing in his throat.

“If you can forgive him, then stay,” Clint says. “You need some space, then...well. I know what that feels like. And if you stay here then you're gonna have to guarantee that there's going to be no more of that battle royale. The Young Avengers will be back in the building and - and I'm not having you two brawling it out in front of them.”

And Steve is nodding slowly behind his hand. He swallows again and then drops his hand, trying to discreetly wipe away his tears as he does. It doesn't work; Arto knows he’s crying.

Steve clears his throat, looks at Arto. “If you’re coming, you’re not just walking out. You're coming with me to explain to Tony that you’re coming.”

Arto nods immediately. He’ll tell Tony that he’s going, he’ll tell him that this is his fault and he shouldn’t have made Steve sad and he should have come out of the workshop. And also, Arto thinks, if he goes with Steve then he might not have to go back to school and face Peter, and he won’t have to talk to anyone about his nails or the headband or how it’s making him feel all back to front.

He latches onto the thought. It’s like an anchor, stabilizing his whirling thoughts. Giving him enough strength to slowly stand up and take a deep breath.

Going away. With Steve.

That’s all he needs to do.

* * *

 

He holds ferociously onto his anger as he goes to find Tony, carrying it like a flaming brand in his chest. Surprise surprise, Tony is in the motherfucking workshop. Bruce is there too and it looks like they're arguing as well, though in a  much more restrained way than Steve and Tony were. Arto thinks about punching the glass in, shattering the whole damn thing but before he can, Tony is up and at the door.

“Art, I was coming to find you when you’d finished with Steve-”

“I’m going with Steve.”

Tony rears back like Arto has tried to hit him, his mouth opens and then he just as quickly closes it. He meets Arto’s eyes and shrugs. “Okay.”

Arto stares at him. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, now not looking at him. “Rogers roadtrip, I get it.”

And the anger is swelling, growing stronger, nastier. Violence itches right under his skin. “That’s it? Just okay?”

“Well what else is there? I pissed everyone off, Steve needs space, he’s taking you.”

“He’s not _taking_ me, he wanted me to stay with you and I said no,” Arto snaps.

Tony just stares at him. For the first time ever, he doesn't seem to have anything to say.

“Fuck you,” Arto says, voice trembling. “You hate my nails and you hurt Steve and you’re not even sorry.”

Tony opens his mouth to say something but again he seems to give up. He just shakes his head and he’s turning away, already looking back to the fucking workshop like that’s more important than Steve or Arto.

Arto doesn’t wait for him to find the words. He storms away and doesn’t look back.


	3. Chapter 3

Arto is sent to go and pack a bag. He asks Steve to help but Steve tells him no, that if he’s coming then he’s doing so under his own steam. Arto kind of gets it but wishes Steve weren’t being so very careful about the whole thing. They’re in this together by Arto’s choice; no-one's going to say that Steve is forcing him to go with him just because Steve helps him pack.

And anyway. He hates packing at the best of times.

He says goodbye to Clint and then makes himself say goodbye to the others, just to prove a point. He almost changes his mind when he’s got Anna in his arms and she’s resting her head on his shoulder, happily murmuring ‘Tow.’

But then he remembers the way Tony’s eyes slid past him into the workshop and it stiffens his resolve.

“Be good,” he whispers to Anna. 

“Guh,” she whispers back, eyes big and wide like’s surprised at the quietness. 

“Yeah, good,” he says, and hands her back to Clint before going down to the garage.

It takes him a while to find Steve; he’d assumed that Steve would be taking the bike but of course that makes no sense seeing as they both have bags. He peers into the new Audi and the Bugatti with no luck and eventually finds Steve sitting in the driver’s seat of his Tesla, thumbing away at something on his phone. The lid of the front trunk is already open so Arto just throws his case in, hits the close button and then climbs into the passenger seat.

“Everyone stares when you drive this car,” he says.

Steve shrugs, turns on the ignition. “Tony’s always telling me to get the goddamn Tesla out of his garage. I’m doing as I’m told.”

Ouch. Arto actually winces at the pettiness, knowing full well that Tony’s hatred of Steve’s car is like ninety percent a joke. He knows his dad can sometimes be stubborn and awkward but he normally does better at keeping it to a minimum around Arto. 

“You never do as you're told,” Arto says.

“First time for everything,” Steve replies. “You sure you’re coming?”

“Yes,” Arto says. “I told you like a million times. Can I pick the music?”

“Sure.” Steve doesn't look like he cares in the slightest, so Arto takes full advantage of that fact. The car pulls away, eerily silent as always. Bucky calls it the ninja car and absolutely adores it, even though Steve very rarely lets him - or anyone else - drive it. 

Arto focusses on playing around with the front console. His nails make it surprisingly difficult to navigate the touch screen, like the added millimetres of gel polish have somehow rendered his fingers completely incapable. When he gets the hang of it - angling his fingers slightly differently to compensate - he tries flicking through digital radio stations before dismissing them all and syncing up his cell. He deliberately keeps his eyes down, not watching as they pull away from Avengers Tower.  

“Where are we going?” 

Steve unhooks his sunglasses from his shirt, slipping them on and making a big deal of looking for other cars as he switches lanes. “Chicago.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where there’s an apartment with my name on the lease,” Steve says. “Well, my name as well as Tony’s.”

Arto kind of needs him to stop mentioning Tony’s name. He thinks it’d do them both good right now.

“That’s like ten hours.”

“More like twelve, with traffic,” Steve nods. He looks down at the console, pulling a face at it. He doesn't say anything though so Arto leaves his music on, slumping down to look out of the window. He can see the Hudson sparkling in the sunlight, beyond that the buildings and skyscrapers that make up the edge of New Jersey. 

They both fall quiet and Arto lets himself just sit and stare as the city gives way to suburbs, and finally wooded green spaces, punctuated with tiny towns. The scenery whips by as the car eats up the miles; Steve is driving faster than Arto has ever personally experienced, though the others - mostly Bucky - have told him plenty of stories about Steve driving like a madman. 

They’re about halfway across New Jersey when he thinks to text Omari. He opens up Whatsapp, ignores the Peter conversation, types ‘ _i’m going away with Steve don’t know when I’ll be back.’_ He barely has to wait ten seconds before Omari sends back a thumbs up and a green love heart, followed by ‘ _call me later when you can.’_

He tucks his phone away, feels tears surging hot and sudden. Swallows hard and tries to wipe them away. 

“New Jersey isn’t that bad,” Steve says, offhand.

“It’s not about - shut up,” Arto says thickly.

“Yeah,” Steve replies quietly. Then, “You want to go back?”

Arto shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Stop asking.”

“Never.”

“I promise I’ll tell you if I want to go back, but I don’t, so stop it,” Arto says forcefully. He wishes he had his own sunglasses so he could hide behind them. He settles for turning the music up, loud enough so that Steve would have to shout if he wanted to be heard.

Steve doesn’t even tell him to turn it down, and that’s probably worse. 

 

* * *

 

They stop once in Pennsylvania to stretch their legs and get coffee. Steve has gone from making awful jokes to not saying anything at all. Arto has got no idea how to make it better so he doesn’t say anything either. 

Back in the car, Arto puts on more music that Steve probably hates and naps fitfully. He keeps thinking about the argument he overheard, the things Tony and Steve were yelling at each other. There’s a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that something else has happened, that the argument is not just about the amount of Tony’s spent in the workshop.

It takes until Ohio for him to pluck up the courage to ask Steve about it.

He turns down the music, looks straight out the front, staring at the brakelights of the Prius in front of them. “What did Tony do?”

Steve reaches out and turns the music back up.

Arto turns to gape at him, mouth literally hanging open. He turns the music down again on his phone and then grabs for Steve’s wrist as Steve goes to turn it back up again.

“Jesus, Art, I’m driving,” Steve exclaims, tugging his wrist free.

“And I’m trying to talk to you!” Arto shouts. “Dad!”

“Now is not the time to talk about it,” Steve snaps. 

“But-”

“No, Art,” Steve says. “I am not talking about it.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, you can tell me-”

“You are, you’re my kid,” Steve says. “Now drop it.”

Arto shuts his mouth and turns his face away from Steve, furious and embarrassed and close to tears. He turns the music back up and stares out of the window at the darkening sky.

 

* * *

 

They stop again in a town somewhere in the middle of Ohio. Steve has apparently planned ahead because he pulls up at a garage that has two tesla charging points, one of them with a reserved sign hanging neatly in front of it. He gets out of the car with a terse “wait here,” to Arto, who refuses to even acknowledge that Steve has said anything.

Ten minutes later and the car is hooked up to the charging point and Steve is unloading their bags. Arto gets out of the car to see a garage attendant staring at them both in awe. Steve has a quick word and the man is nodding vigorously, even going to far as to pop a salute as Steve turns away.

“Come on,” Steve mutters to Arto. “Five minute walk.”

“You’re just going to leave your super expensive car here?”

“They’re keeping an eye on it,” Steve says. “It’s gonna take six hours to fully charge, you want to wait for it here or you want to get some food and some sleep?” 

He’s right, but Arto’ll be damned if he admits it out loud. He tugs his bag out of Steve’s grip and shoulders it, scowling. Steve seems to accept that as a response because he just starts walking, Arto following in his wake. 

They drop off their bags at a motel and then head to a diner. It’s run down and tired looking but it serves burgers and Arto is starving so he doesn’t care about the peeling vinyl and cracked seats. Steve doesn’t seem to give a shit either, slumping back against the booth and ordering double portions of everything. That earns him a sideways glance, and Arto can pinpoint the exact moment that the server recognises them.

Luckily, all it gets them is their food served super quickly. Arto blinks at the milkshake that he didn’t order and is torn between crying and knocking it over when he realises Steve did it for him.

“Peace offering,” Steve says quietly, when he notices Arto staring at the milkshake. “I’m sorry I was an ass.”

“S’okay,” Arto says, then, “Which time?”

Steve lets out a laugh at that. “Oh, okay. That’s how it is.”

“I only asked a question.”

“You asked the one question that was guaranteed to knock me on my ass,” Steve says gently. “But I shouldn’t have reacted like such a dick. So I’m sorry.”

Arto nods, a lump in his throat. “I was super pushy,” he says. “So I’m sorry too.”

Steve nods. “I guess we’re both pretty bad at talking about feelings, huh.”

Arto nods. Thinks about all the feelings he’s currently keeping on lockdown: thoughts of Peter, thoughts of that damn pink headband. They’re currently filed as unimportant seeing as his attention has been monopolized by Steve and Tony’s fallout, but they haven't gone away completely.

“Feelings are hard,” he says.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “You know what’ll make it feel better?”

“Pancakes,” Arto replies automatically. “Can we get pancakes?”

Steve nods. “Anything you want.”

“Membership with the Young Avengers and my own Audi R8.”

Steve pulls a face. “Okay, no. Nearly anything you want.”

Arto smiles bravely at him. “Worth a try,” he says and Steve huffs out a laugh. He holds out an arm and Arto slips out of his seat and into the space next to Steve, letting Steve pull him in for a one-armed squeeze. He buries his face in Steve’s collarbone, twisting back awkwardly to grab Steve’s arm, pulling at him until Steve capitulates and wraps him up in a proper hug.

“Oh, a hug, right. Could have just asked,” Steve says, propping his chin on top of Arto’s head. 

“Tired,” Arto says and feels Steve’s ribs shift as he laughs in surprise.

“Think that’s the first time you’ve ever admitted you’re tired,” he says. “Wow.”

“Whatever,” Arto mumbles. 

“Yeah, you’ve probably forgotten all the times you ran circles around us because you wouldn’t sleep,” Steve says. “Six year old you was a bit of an asshole when it came to bedtime.”

And Arto does remember, at least he thinks he does. He remembers getting up out of his bed and running after Steve as Steve tried to slip out the door. He remembers crying when Steve picked him up and carried him back to his bed-

“Thought you wouldn’t come back,” he mumbles, and feels Steve’s arms go tight around him.

“I’ll always come back for you,” he says into Arto’s hair. “Always. You got that?”

Arto nods, and holds on tight.

 

* * *

 

That night he doesn’t argue about going to sleep in honour of his six-year-old self. He just curls up under his blankets and stares at the other twin bed where Steve is sleeping, no more than five feet away. 

At least he thinks Steve is sleeping. He’s got his back to Arto and he’s very still, but Arto’s not sure. 

Despite how tired he is, he stays up for a while, flicking through his phone. He looks at some of the photos of him and Anna, exits out of his gallery before he can look at the pictures of him and Peter in the chem lab at school. He re-reads the article about himself that was on TMZ, checks to see if there’s any news about any of the other Avengers. He opens StarkSearch and types in pink headband and chickens out before he actually hits search.

He slides his phone under his pillow and closes his eyes, wishing he was little enough to get away with crawling into Steve’s bed so he didn’t have to feel so alone.

 

* * *

 

White room. Tiles that are cold. He fearfully presses his hand to the glass of the door and feels it buzzing, vibrating. It gets louder. Rattling in its frame.  

“Help,” he says. “Steve, help.” 

The whole room is shaking and smoke is pouring in. He can hear banging and clanging and he feels so very, very frightened. Where’s Eleanor? He needs to get out of here but she’s not come back for him, she said she’d come back-

“Arto!”

He lurches awake with a gasp. Two strong hands are on his shoulders, helping him up into a sitting position. He’s all sweaty and gross and he can smell smoke.

“Arto, breathe. I got you, just relax.”

It’s Steve. He grabs hold of Steve’s arms, shaking. “I had,” he tries to say. “I had a nightmare.”

“I know, shush,” Steve says. He sits down on Arto’s bed and then hauls Arto into his lap, holding him sideways. It seems to be happening a lot at the moment. “You’re okay. Just a bad dream.”

It takes him ages to stop shaking. He keeps squeezing his eyes shut like he can get rid of the lingering images of white tiles and smoke. When he does calm down, he’s vaguely embarrassed and annoyed at himself, enough so that he pushes away from Steve and sits next to him instead.

It’s quiet. He can hear the soft hum of the heaters and Steve breathing. Steve’s bedside lamp is on, spilling gold over the carpet and beds, not strong enough to reach the darker corners of the room.

It’s Steve who breaks the silence, voice calm and gentle and low. “That happen before? More than just tonight?”

“No,” Arto lies, even though he’s a little scared about just how real that nightmare was. It’s never been that bad before. “I’m okay.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. “I’m not convinced.”

Arto tips sideways, butts Steve’s shoulder with his forehead. “I’m okay.”

Steve nudges back at him. “Arto,” he says gently. “You have not had the best time recently. Between this, Peter, TMZ splashing you all over the web...if you _were_  completely okay I’d start to worry that you weren’t human.”

Arto feels his chin tremble. “Bucky says I’ve.”

“Yeah?”

“Bucky says I’ve got a lot going on.”

“You do,” Steve says. “You’re being very brave.”

_No I’m not,_ Arto thinks. _I’m scared all of the time._

Steve squeezes his shoulder and then gets up. Arto panics for a moment but Steve comes back within a minute, a glass of water and a pack of cookies in hand. “Here,” he says, and passes Arto both. “I can go find you hot chocolate if you want?”

“No, don’t go,” Arto says quickly. “I’m okay, I just want to go back to sleep.”

Steve nods, runs a hand over Arto’s sweaty hair. “How about I stay here until you fall asleep again?” he says. 

Arto feels some of the tension unwind, and he nods wordlessly. He drinks half the water, eats eight cookies and slips back into bed.

“Stay,” he says.

Steve nods. “Not going anywhere,” he says, and Arto lets himself fall back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

‘ _Don’t think I’ll be back to school this week.’_

Arto sends the message, keeps his phone in hand as he stares out of the car window. They’ve been on the road for three hours already, both of them quiet and not really in the mood for talking. It’s okay though; Steve had bought him breakfast with a smile and Arto had given him a hug to try and say thank you. Not just for the breakfast, but he’s not sure Steve understood.

His phone buzzes in his hand. It’s Omari. ‘ _That’s cool. I’ll take notes for you.’_

_‘Will you be okay? Text Bucky if you need anything’_

_‘Yeah I’ll be fine.’_

A soft chiming distracts him. For one bewildered moment he wonders which app on his phone is making that noise, then he realises that it’s _Steve’s_  phone. It must be connected to the car’s systems because on the centre console appears a phone icon imposed over a picture of Pepper.

Steve glances at it, then says, “mother _fucker_.”

Arto almost chokes on air. Steve reaches out to dismiss the call, glancing at Arto. “Don’t you say that.”

“Don’t _you_ say that!”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Steve says. “Damn, I should have seen that coming.”

“She’s going to be mad at us for leaving, isn’t she?”

“No-one is going to be mad at you,” Steve says. “Me, on the other hand.”

Arto presses his phone to his chin, tapping his nails against the case. “Why will they be mad? Tony’s the one that did something wrong, right?”

Steve glances over at him, sharp. “I’m not telling you, so-”

Pepper’s face re-appears on the console, accompanied by the same chiming sound. Steve bites back another curse but this time answers it.

“Arto is with me,” he says immediately. “I will call you back later if you want to have it out with me, but he is here and he is listening.”

“Where are you?” Pepper asks, sounding subdued.

“In the car,” Steve replies.

“Tony told me what he did,” Pepper says.

There’s a long silence. Arto looks at Steve. He’s doing that thing where he clenches his teeth together so hard that the muscle in his jaw looks like it’s going to snap. He doesn’t say anything though and neither does Pepper, and it’s getting kind of awkward.

Arto leans forwards slightly. “What _did_ Tony do?”

“ _Arto_!” Steve shouts, loud and sudden enough to make Arto jump out of his skin, dropping his phone into the footwell. Steve glares at him. “Pepper, don’t answer that!”

“I wasn’t going to,” Pepper snaps back. “God, I could kill you and Tony both-”

“Hanging up now, I’ll call you later,” Steve says, and cuts the call. He’s that furious that his hand is shaking, and it’s making Arto feel all bent out of shape.

“I just want to know what he did,” he says lamely. 

“You-” Steve starts, cuts himself off with an aggrieved noise. “You really want to know you call him yourself and ask, and you accept the consequences of knowing.”

“Fine,” Arto replies, leans forwards to get his phone. “I will.”

“Wait,” Steve says. “Arto, listen to me.”

Arto goes still, phone in hand. He doesn’t look at Steve, but he’s listening.

“Tony - Tony made a call that put himself in danger,” Steve says. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “That’s why I’m so angry. That’s all you need to know.”

Arto feels himself go cold. “He put himself in danger? Aren’t you guys in danger enough?”

Steve takes one hand off the wheel, rubs at his forehead. “I know,” he says, strained. “Fuck, I know. Look, I didn’t want to - I didn’t want you to know because I don’t want you angry at your dad just because I am. I didn’t want you involved in this fight-”

“Well I am,” Arto says, and he looks at his phone and flips to Tony’s number. “I want to talk to him.”

“Arto, just,” Steve says, and reaches out to put a hand over Arto’s. “Wait an hour. If you still feel that way in an hour, call him. Don’t do anything you’ll regret because you’re angry.”

“I want to know!”

“I know, just hear me out. Wait an hour. Please.”

And it’s probably because Steve doesn’t really say please in that way that Arto listens. He nods and drops his phone back into the footwell. He goes back to staring out of the window, biting on his thumbnail and wishing that everything could just go back to normal. 

 

* * *

 

Exactly an hour later and they pulled over at a service station just on the outskirts of Chicago. He thinks it’s a coincidence really, until he comes back with drink in each hand to find Steve standing by the car already on his phone. 

Damnit, his dad is a tactical genius. One who spots him coming a mile away and hangs up the call. 

“Who were you talking to?” Arto asks.

“Bucky,” Steve lies.

Arto narrows his eyes, holding the coffee out of reach. “Don’t lie.”

Steve sighs, hangs his head. “Fine. I called Tony. I told him you knew he’d done something, that it wasn’t just about him being in the workshop.”

“And?”

“Well, he said you were smart enough to work it out so he wasn’t surprised,” Steve says. “He’ll talk to you about it if you want.”

Accepting the answer this time around, Arto hands over the coffee, which Steve takes gratefully. He goes to take a sip and then starts as he hears someone shout, “Cap!” It’s come from a pair of women, standing over by a family sized SUV. One of them waves and the other one smacks her arm, and they start squabbling amongst themselves.

“Time to go,” Steve says, pressing the lid of his disposable cup back over his drink and ducking back into the car. Arto hastily scrambles into his side, pinning Steve with a narrow-eyed glare as Steve starts the car.

“What,” Steve says, “Why are you giving me that look.”

“You’re sneaky.”

“I’m a tactical genius.”

“Sneaky.”

Steve sighs. “Okay, have it your way. I’m sneaky.”

Arto twists around in the seat so he’s leaning on his shoulder, cheek pressed to the soft faux-leather. He reaches out, pressing his fingers to Steve’s bicep. “At least you don’t do stupid dangerous stuff.”

“I’m Captain America, I do plenty of dangerous things.”

Arto pinches at his arm. “But,” he says, “there’s a line, right? Clint said Tony crossed a line.” 

Steve’s expression goes pained. “In my opinion, yes,” he says. He sounds like he’s choosing his words very carefully. “But that is not what your opinion should be based on. You shouldn’t be forming an opinion yet because you’ve not spoken to Tony. You wanted to come with me because you wanted to stick with me, not because-”

“Because he doesn’t care about me right now, he cares about his stupid workshop.”

“Arto, can we not,” Steve says quietly. “I’m tired.”

His tone brings yet more hot tears to Arto’s eyes and a lump to his throat. He nods, tugging at Steve’s shirtsleeve for no other reason than just to remind Steve he’s there. 

“Green,” he mumbles.

Steve reaches over to rest his hand over Arto’s fingers, gently squeezing. “Green,” he murmurs back. 

 

* * *

 

The apartment in Chicago is stunning. It feels weirdly small compared to Avengers tower, probably because the penthouse apartment is spread over a single floor rather than the million that Arto has run of at home. It’s not as high-tech, either: there’s no Jarvis, minimal automated systems. It’s spotlessly clean though and feels super expensive. Maybe it’s the furniture, maybe it’s the lack of personal junk, maybe it’s the goddamn home cinema room. Arto can’t quite put his finger on it.

He claims bedroom #3. While it’s not the biggest, it’s got floor to ceiling windows, two of which look out over the lake. The bed is insanely soft and way bigger than his one at home but he’s not that excited about it. He’s more worried about Steve, who went to drop off his bag in the master bedroom around an hour ago and hasn’t made a peep since. 

He creeps into the master suite, spotting Steve who is lying on his back on the couch that’s at the foot of the bed. His bag is by his feet and he’s staring at the ceiling.

“Dad?”

Steve looks up. “Hey pal,” he says. “You settle in okay?”

“This place feels like a hotel.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, kind of does,” he says. “How about we order pizza and make a mess? Make it feel more like home?”

Arto nods. “Can we throw out the super expensive furniture and buy beanbag chairs instead?”

“Pass,” Steve says. “But we can-”

He’s interrupted by Arto’s phone ringing, of all things. Arto pulls it out of his pocket and his heart promptly tries to backflip its way out his ribcage. 

_Peter_. 

Peter is calling him. Over two weeks of radio silence and ignoring calls and texts and now he’s calling? Arto stares at the name and the picture of Peter and feels something horrid and violent uncurl inside of him. His grip is so tight on the phone that the case is bending.

“Art?”

Arto shakes his head at Steve’s interjection and he hangs up the call. “I’m not talking to him,” he says, too loud. “I don’t want to. It's Peter and I don't want-”

“You don’t have to,” Steve says calmly. “You don’t have to talk to anyone until you’re ready.”

Arto feels the case crack in his hand. “He’s been ignoring me for _weeks_.”

“I know.”

“He can’t just ignore me and then call me like-” he hurls the phone across the room. It hits the wall right next to the window and falls down behind the curtain. He turns, wanting to tip over the fucking couch, wanting to kick the bedframe until it splinters, but finds himself face to face with Steve, who simply wraps him in his arms. Arto resists for a moment but he knows from years of bitter experience that Steve’s arms are like iron bands, and so he gives up. He just slumps against Steve, tucking his arms in tightly with his hands covering his face. Steve shushes him but he needs to scream, needs to somehow let out all the misery and pain from the past weeks, so he does. He screams into his hands, pressed tightly against Steve and he’s glad Steve has got hold of him otherwise he’s sure he would break into a million pieces right there.

“Okay, I know, I know,” Steve says.

“No you don’t,” Arto manages to say. 

Steve doesn’t reply to that. He just holds him close and waits him out, solid and unwavering.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve orders them pizza. They lie on the couch with possibly every blanket that was in the penthouse, watching some Channing Tatum action flick on the flat screen TV that in no way matches the rest of the elegant and expensive decor. Steve gets his sketchpad about halfway through and starts drawing with a biro, elbow on the arm of the couch and head on his fist.

“What you drawing?” Arto mumbles, inching a finger out of his blanket burrito to scratch his nose. The glitter reflects the light of the TV, a thousand pink and silver sparks in the darkness. 

Steve pauses, then lifts the sketchpad so Arto can see. It’s a caricature: a doodle of a small, unhappy looking guy with skinny limbs and knock knees, hiding behind a very familiar shield.   

“Don’t be sad,” Arto says, tipping his blanket-roll sideways so he bumps into Steve’s hip. 

“I won’t if you won’t?” Steve offers, setting a hand on his shoulder.

Arto ignores that. He reaches out to take the pen, adding to Steve’s picture. He draws an angry-faced ghost coming at the shield, then a quick sketch of himself shouting ‘ _no_!’ and scaring it away.

“You’re a good child,” Steve says. “Possibly one of my very favourites.”

“I am your favourite,” Arto says, and taps the pen against the paper contemplatively. He hesitates then draws a doodle of himself in the bottom corner, curled up very small and sad. Steve immediately takes the pen back and draws himself draping a blanket covered in love hearts over the small sad Arto-drawing. 

“Okay,” Arto says and Steve hugs him tight. 


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes up the next morning and finds that it’s snowing outside. He crawls out of bed, dragging his blanket with him and takes a few moments just to sit by the window, resting his forehead on the glass and watching the flakes drift down past the neighbouring skyscrapers.

From the depths of the bed, he hears a beep. His phone. He crawls back to retrieve it, tossing pillows aside before he manages to get it. It’s a text from La’Taya, but more importantly there’s another two messages that must have come in at some point in the night.

Both are from Peter.

The first says _‘…….9 jKKKKKkkkKkpppPPP’_ which is a pretty typical Peter-butt-text, and the second says _‘Omari says your dads have fallen out?? what the hell is going on?? are you okay?’_

He wants to tell Peter everything. Wants to call him and admit every last little thing that’s been bothering him in the past few weeks but he doesn’t. He stares at the text from Peter, wondering if he’s out of order for being angry that Peter hasn’t even acknowledged that he’s been a shitty friend. He can’t just jump back into the picture after weeks of nothing and expect Arto to just act normal.

He texts La’Taya back and apologises for the fact he won’t be back at school. He also texts Omari a gif of a boy hugging a chicken, hashtags it ‘foryou’.

His pathetic excuse for a social life taken care of, he leaves his phone on the floor and goes to find Steve. It’s gone ten AM so he expects Steve to have been up for hours already, so it’s a shock to find Steve still in bed and fast asleep.

“Steve,” he whispers, pushing the bedroom door further open. “ _Steve._ ”

He pads over, dragging his blanket with him. Frowns and gently pulls at Steve’s ear.

Steve jerks awake, bleary and scowling. He pushes Arto’s hand away, lifting his head up and blinking hard. “What?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“It’s gone ten,” Arto says.

Steve’s scowl deepens. “It’s my day off, I’m sleeping.”

“You never sleep this late.”

“New year, new me,” Steve grunts at him and rolls back over.

Arto clambers onto the bed behind him, sitting cross-legged and leaning back against Steve’s shoulders. Steve groans, clearly making a big deal over the fact Arto has woken him up.

“Peter text me saying that Omari had said that you and Tony had split up.”

“We have _not_ split up,” Steve says. “Can we have this conversation when I’ve had more sleep, please?”

“I’m bored though,” Arto says. “I don’t know what to do. I didn’t bring my X-Box.”

“Read a book,” Steve says, reaching up to pull his pillow over his head. “Do some sketching. Play on your phone. Go for a bath.”

“A bath?” Arto twists around. “I can have a bath? There’s not a bath in my en-suite.”

“Use the master bathroom. Bubble bath. Don’t flood the place.”

“Sir, no, sir,” Arto says, already halfway off the bed, leaving his blanket behind. He has to take a moment to get his bearings and remember where the main bathroom is, but then he’s in and locking the door behind him. The bathroom is so insanely fancy, even more so than Steve and Tony’s bathroom back home. Everything is sleek and shining and the bath is a gloriously huge standing tub in the middle of the room. Even better – the bathroom is in the centre of the apartment so there’s no windows which means privacy, which Arto means to take full advantage of.

Just before he climbs into the tub, something occurs to him. He opens the door a fraction, sticks his head out into the hallway.

“DAD!”

“ _What?!_ ”

“There’s definitely no Jarvis here, is there?”

“No.”

“There’s no other Jarvis type things, either? No surveillance?”

“Only in the elevator, the hallways and the lounge.”

That’s good enough for him. He ducks back into the bathroom and makes sure the door is most definitely locked.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour and a half later and he finally slinks out of the bathroom. Steve is up now, in the kitchen and unpacking groceries that he’s clearly had delivered. He gives Arto a flat look as Arto wanders in, and Arto maybe thinks he missed the mark on casual.

“You are not subtle,” Steve observes.

Arto gives him his best innocent look. “What?”

“Never mind,” Steve says. “I’m going to plead ignorance. What do you want for breakfast?”

Okay so Steve clearly knows about his alone time in the bathroom but he’s a _teenager_ , what is he meant to do? Just not think about sex at all ever? Keep his hands to himself just because his dad is being awkward and embarrassing and weird? Yeah, not going to happen. He doesn’t say anything out loud though, just goes along with Steve’s plan of denial.

“Bacon and waffles?”

“You gottit,” Steve says. “I rang school by the way. They know you’re with me. Authorised you some extended holiday or something.”

“Are they mad?”

“No. They were being nosey about why I was taking you out of the state but I guess their job is to worry about you,” Steve says, pulling open the refrigerator. “You want juice?”

“Mhhhm,” Arto says, and sits at the long breakfast bar. It’s all wrong, and as he sits down he fiercely misses his seat at the island counter at home, the huge oblong that has enough space around it for everyone. “Is there any syrup?”

Even as he asks, he reaches out for the carton of juice that Steve has set on the counter and makes an alarmed sound as he spots the big chunk of gel polish missing from his thumb nail. It’s like it’s literally peeled off, a slice of glittery pink somehow missing.

“What?”

“My nail,” Arto says, staring at it and then holding it out to Steve. “Look, it’s like torn, its peeled off.”

Steve looks, makes a sympathetic sound. “Sorry, bud.”

Arto stares down at the chipped polish, feeling like he could cry about it.

“You want to go get it fixed?”

Arto shakes his head. “No,” he says quickly. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t tell Steve but he thinks maybe it’d be better if he just let all the polish come off. No more pink, no more glitter.

Steve is looking at him strangely. “You sure?”

Arto shakes his head again. “What are we going to do today? Can we go out? Can we explore?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “You bought a decent coat, right?”

“Yep,” Arto says. “Hey, can I borrow your phone? I want to call Clint.”  

Steve tosses it over without argument and Arto leans the phone up against the carton of juice, video calling Clint’s phone. It rings and rings and for once stomach-dipping awful moment he thinks that Clint isn’t going to answer and then it connects to reveal Bucky.

“Hey, Short Round,” Bucky says. He shifts around, sets the phone down his end and Arto’s heart does a happy little jump as he sees Bucky has got Anna on his hip. She doesn’t have her pink bow on this morning, which he’s ridiculously relieved about. “He’s on duty with the Young Avengers, you okay?”

“Tow!” Anna gasps, leaning forwards to try and get the phone. “Tow!”

“Leave the phone alone, baby,” Bucky says, reaching out of sight and coming back with a stuffed Hulk toy that he passes to her. Predictably, she tries to shove it in her mouth before happily squashing it against the edge of the counter.

“Hi! Anna, hi,” Arto says, waving at her. She brandishes the toy back at him, beaming.

“I miss you,” he says to her.

“Tow,” she agrees, dropping the toy to the floor. Bucky sighs and leans sideways to retrieve it.

“So, how’s Chicago?”

“Snowing. Cold. We’re going exploring today.”

“You feeling better?”

Arto shrugs, looks at Steve’s back where he’s busy preparing breakfast. “I dunno,” he says, and holds up his hand. “I broke a nail.”

“Yeah, doing what? Fighting? Punching things?”

“No,” Arto says, giving Bucky a _look_. Steve doesn’t know about his stress-relief workout and he wants to keep it that way, thanks very much.

“Where’s Steve? He behaving?”

“Yeah, he’s making breakfast, he only just got up,” Arto says. Bucky’s face does something funny at that, some play of emotion that Arto doesn’t understand. “There’s no Jarvis here, it’s weird.”

Bucky barks out a laugh, expression smoothing over. “I’ll bet. Your spoiled ass will have to get used to doing things manually.”

“Hey!”

Bucky grins at him and winks, but before anyone can say anything, the smile vanishes from his face like a light has been switched off. Arto feels a thrill of alarm down his spine, a very visceral fear reaction at Bucky’s face doing that, and then he hears _Tony’s voice in the background._

Still in full panic mode, he reaches out and abruptly hangs up the phone.

Steve walks over, picks up the phone and stares at the blank screen. “You didn’t have to hang up on him.”

Arto feels very small and stupid at that. “I panicked,” he says, barely more than a mumble. He hears Steve moving around but carries on staring at the counter, trying to work out how he feels about Tony and home and this whole mess. He only stops his staring match with the marble when a plate of waffles and bacon is literally slid into his sight-line.

Steve sits next to him, elbows on the counter and head in his hands. “I miss him,” he suddenly says. “I am seriously angry at him, but that doesn’t stop me missing him or loving him.”

Arto nods. “What if I find out what he did and it’s so bad that…”

“I honestly don’t know, I’m not you, I don’t know how you’ll feel,” Steve says, which isn’t helpful. “I’ll support you whatever happens. But the end game of this is that we go home, and we forgive and move on.”

“What if I don’t want to forgive and move on.”

Steve turns away from him, looking out of the window. His eyes seem to bright. “I-” he begins, falters. “I don’t want to imagine a world where you can’t,” he says. “I know you’re young and right now you have every right to feel angry and upset, but that will go away.”

Arto’s torn. It’s like part of him doesn’t want it to go away, like if he forgives and forgets then all the hurt he’s feeling won’t matter, it’ll just be washed away.

“Arto,” Steve says gently. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Arto doesn't really want to but he knows it’ll be better if he does. It’s like his old therapist used to say, getting things out there for other people to hear can make them feel less scary. Though that’s easy enough for someone to say when they’re good at finding words. It different when you’re the sort of person who gets the wrong words. Like what if you get something out there but you’ve said it wrong and people misunderstand?

He swallows hard. Tries anyway. It’s only Steve hearing it out loud, which isn’t so bad. “If you forgive someone who does something bad,” he says. “They win.”

“No, no,” Steve says, reaching out to run a hand over Arto’s hair. “Not at all. It’s not about winning. Especially not with someone you love. I guarantee, for as shit as we feel right now, Tony will be feeling worse. I wouldn’t consider that winning.”

“Why couldn’t he have felt worse and stopped being a jerk _before_ we left.”

“Because he’s Tony,” Steve says with a smile that looks sad and strange. “Sometimes he’s like me, needs something big to make him see sense or change his mind.”

Arto scowls at his bacon, jabbing at it with his fork. “I don’t get how you’re defending him now.”

“I am defending him as my husband and your father,” Steve says. “I am not defending what he did.”

And that does make sense, even to Arto’s completely jumbled up thoughts. He stops attacking the bacon, drops his fork. “Can I call him?”

“He’s your dad. Of course. Eat your breakfast first.”

Arto does and then goes to find his own phone. He gets as far as having Tony’s number up on the screen but then chickens out and types out a text instead, which is probably a shitty thing to do but whatever, he’s exhausted and if he calls Tony he’ll definitely cry.

And despite what he said to Steve in the car yesterday, a part of him is very, very scared about finding out what Tony did.

_I panicked I’m sorry I hung up. I love you. I don’t want to talk about it but I love you._

He waits barely four seconds before his phone starts to ring, and really he should have expected that from Tony. He’s like the most impatient person on the planet. Arto’s seen him override government level security to put calls through to Steve when he wants to make a point. Honestly, he’s a little afraid his phone will answer itself.

Thankfully, it stops ringing and goes dark, simply telling him he has a missed call from Tony.

And then, a message comes through.

_When you’re ready, we’ll have it out. Love you Smart Art._

He blows out a shaky breath, feeling that the message was exactly what he needed to hear.

  


* * *

 

 

He feels oddly lighter after his conversation with Steve, like he’s given himself permission to let go of some of the anger that he was feeling towards Tony. The message from Tony has certainly helped as well, like Tony telling him that he expected them to have it out validates Arto’s anger, which weirdly makes it go away a little. It’s like knowing he’s allowed to be mad makes it easier to not be mad in such an overwhelming way.

Which is fine, because Arto has plenty of other crap to be overwhelmed about anyway.

Mid-morning finds them taking a cab to the Art Institute of Chicago, which Arto manages to be insanely excited about even with everything else ticking over in the back of his brain. Steve does not seem as excited as he should be considering art; he’s got his cap pulled low over his face and seems to be kind of lost. Not in a _‘he doesn't know where he’s going’_ way, but in a _‘he doesn’t seem to be focussing on what’s right in front of his face’_ way.

Arto sticks close, fingers snagging on the arm of Steve’s coat and holding on. Steve doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, even though there’s several points where they literally bump into each other because Arto’s all up in his personal space.

The moment they’re in, Arto whips the map out of Steve’s hand. “Top floor,” he says. “Modern art first.”

“Slow down, we’ve got all day,” Steve says.

“No, come on,” Arto says. He grabs hold of Steve’s jacket and pulls him over towards the stairs, almost bumping in to a group of people coming out the elevators. One of the people he nearly knocks over is a girl with beautiful curly blonde hair and freckles. She’s about his age and she’s _gorgeous_.

“Sorry,” Arto says, feeling his cheeks going warm. She ducks her head, smiles and hurries after her family. Arto watches her go until Steve elbows him, hard.

“Not subtle.”

Arto scowls. “Shut up,” he grouches, shoving his hands in his pockets. His torn nail snags on the lining of his pocket and he feels a strange warm wave of panic. What if she saw his nails? What if she assumes he’s gay because of his nails? What if no girl ever looks at him ever again because they assume he’s gay?

Oh, _no._

“Art?” Steve sounds concerned. “You okay?”

“Yep,” Arto says quickly, though his voice feels all weird. “Modern art, lets go.”

He tries to get himself lost in the artwork, he really does, moving from section to section with Steve just behind him. However, as well as appreciating lines and style and colour and atmosphere and message, he finds himself scrutinising the subjects of all the paintings, seeing how his brain reacts. He definitely doesn’t perk up at any of the male subjects. Some of the women are definitely beautiful and make his cheeks go warm if he thinks about it too much. It’s the same way he appreciates the Victoria’s Secret models in Times Square so he remains ninety-nine percent sure he’s straight.

Until he grinds to a halt in front of a painting of Saint George killing the Dragon, and it’s not even the dragon that he’s staring it. It’s the goddamn princess in the background, the one with the flowing pink cape that matches the colour of his nails, trimmed in some sort of fur. She’s wearing glittery jewels and a crown and he wants the jewellery and the cape and the dress, something long and flowing.

What is his brain _doing_? Why this? Why now?

Steve walks up behind him, leans on Arto’s shoulder. “How did you know you were gay?” Arto blurts out, staring hard at the painting.

Steve pauses, clearly a little confused. He looks at the painting and then decides not to comment or ask how Arto has gone from dragon slaying to questions about sexuality. “Well, there was a waiter in a coffee shop near the tower,” he says quietly. “Couldn’t stop staring at him. And then Tony. When we first met we fought like cat and dog. Honestly, it was like you and Bucky used to be.”

“What changed?”

Steve shrugs. “We started sleeping together.”

Arto screws up in his face in disgust. “Dad, that’s gross.”

“You asked.”

“But you don’t have to tell me that, you could have _lied_ ,” Arto huffs, cuts himself off because he knows what Steve will say in response to that. “Bucky. How did he know?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Steve says. “Though I wouldn’t bother asking Clint, he just says he’s Bucky-sexual which is probably not the most useful answer.”

“What?”

“Well, he says he always considered himself straight and then Bucky happened,” Steve shrugs. “He doesn’t question it, just says Bucky is an outlier and should not be counted.”

Clint’s sanity is a conversation for another time, Arto decides. “Bucky’s like. Not…”

Steve starts to wander, looking towards the next painting. It’s not as interesting as Saint George but Arto follows anyway. “Bucky’s not girly in any way at all.”

“That has no impact on who he wants to…well.” Steve clears his throat, moving on which is great because if he mentions sex again then Arto will die of embarrassment. “Are you saying that he should be? What about me? Am _I_ girly because I’m currently in a relationship with a man?”

“No!” Arto says, indignant.

“Then where is this going?” Steve asks.

Arto opens his mouth, shuts it again. His eyes feel hot with humiliation and confusion. He’s scared.

But he’s a Rogers, so he takes a deep breath and makes himself do it. It being taking hold of Steve’s wrist, tugging him back towards the painting of Saint George. Not looking at Steve, he points at the Princess.

Steve is visibly trying to work it out. “Have you fallen in love with the Princess?”

Arto shakes his head. _Don’t make me say it,_ he begs. _Please don’t make me say it out loud._

“No. Have you fallen in love with Saint George? No? Please don’t make me ask if you’ve fallen in love with the dragon.”

“No,” Arto says, throat too tight. He points at the princess again, yanking on Steve’s sleeve. “I. I like.”

Steve looks at Arto, back to the Princess. “You want to be the Princess.”

Arto feels like his face is on fire. “No,” he says, stares at her so hard that his eyes water. “I want her dress.”

If the ground could just open up and swallow him, that’d be great. Or aliens invading, some sort of assemble that means Steve can’t say anything.

“You know…” Steve finally hedges, tone very careful. He sounds like that time he did when Bucky refused to leave the tower because he said the air con might break and make it cold and then Anna might freeze. “You know that you’ve done this before, right? You spent a lot of time when you were younger dressed up as Cinderella.”

“Yeah when I was younger, when you’re young it doesn’t matter,” Arto says, his voice getting louder and more high pitched. “You don’t know anything when you’re young, and I’m seventeen and my brain is breaking-”

Steve quickly sets hands on his shoulders, turns him around so they’re face to face. Only then does Arto realise he’s been practically yelling.

“You want to get out of here?” Steve asks quietly. “If you need to scream it out, we should probably go home.”

“No, I want to be normal,” Arto says, choked up.

Steve pulls him into a hug, right there in the gallery. Everyone’s probably still watching but that doesn’t stop Arto from starting to cry, in front of everyone like some sort of idiot.

“Come on,” Steve says, and there’s no negotiating with that firm tone. He leads Arto out of the gallery and into a cab. He’s stopped sobbing by the time they get in, and opts for staring out of the window at the slush covered sidewalks, clenching his fists tightly so he can’t see his glittery nails.

  

* * *

 

 

Steve takes him home. He sets him on the couch and wraps him in a blanket, brings him his headphones. Arto takes them with a nod, syncing up his cell so he can put on music and block out the world around him. Exhausted, he slumps into the corner and naps fitfully.

When he wakes, Steve is sitting there with his sketchpad on his knee, drawing. Arto makes a noise so that Steve knows he’s awake, pulling his headphones off and tossing them aside.

“So, your brain is breaking.”

Arto nods mutely. He brings his hand up to his face, chewing on his thumbnail.

Steve seems to consider that. He’s being very calm and thoughtful which Arto is grateful for; he doesn’t think he’d get through this if Steve were freaking out too. “And you’re upset and panicking because you’re drawn towards clothes that are typically for girls.”

Arto nods again.

Steve’s brow creases. “I think I know this one, but I want to check. You’re not questioning your sexuality?”

“I’m straight,” Arto mumbles. “But I want things I shouldn’t want.”

Steve nods slowly. “What society says you shouldn’t want,” he corrects, sounding absent. He’s thinking hard, Arto can tell. It takes him a while to blink back into focus, rubbing at the back of his neck in a giveaway worried tell. “I am way out of my depth here, Arto. We need some help.”

“No,” Arto says. “No, don’t tell anyone.”

“You want to keep it a secret?”

“I don’t know. If I turn up wearing a dress then everyone is going to think I’m gay!”

He’s almost shouting again. Steve just holds out a hand, patiently waiting for him to settle back down. Actually, fuck Steve being all calm and rational, he clearly isn’t understanding just how stressful this whole fucking thing is. Arto glares at him, dragging his blanket up over his head like a hood before going back to chewing on his fingers.

Steve gets up, walks away. He doesn’t go far though, just puttering around in the kitchen. He’s probably just doing it as a time-out from the conversation. Arto would happily take a time out from his entire life right about now.

A few long minutes later and Steve comes back for round two. He sits on the edge of the couch, twisting his fingers together. “Do you feel you need...you need to be wearing clothes that are intended for women?”

Arto thinks about it. Whether it’s truly a need or not. “I want to?”

“What I’m trying to get at is...could it be something you do in private? Could you hide away a part of yourself like that?”

“I don’t know,” Arto says miserably. “I don’t even know what’s happening to me.”

Steve heaves out a sigh, rubbing hard at his face. “Okay,” he says, like he’s gathering himself. “Okay. Whatever you decide, we can work with.”

And Arto feels so childish when he reaches for Steve’s hand and asks “really?” in a tiny small voice. Fuck, he’s seventeen he shouldn’t need to be holding his dad’s hand.

“Really,” Steve says, folding his fingers around Arto’s. He rubs his own thumb against Arto’s slightly chewed nail polish. “I wish I knew the answers here. I’m sorry I don’t.”

Arto would argue, but he kind of wishes that too. For once, he’s truly grateful for Steve’s dogged determination to fix everything for him; this is not something he wants to tackle on his own.

He should probably try and turn that into words or something. Say something nice and sincere. He opens his mouth, and what comes out is, “Can we have pizza again?”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a faint smile, leaning over to drop a kiss onto Arto’s blanket covered head. “Pizza it is.”

* * *

 

 

Next morning, Steve is awake before Arto. Arto knows this because Steve wakes him up by tugging on his ear in a pretty obvious case of petty revenge.

“Da-ad,” he whines, trying to shove him away. “No.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I thought that was how we woke people up now.”

“No,” he repeats. “Go away.”

“Going away,” Steve says, far too cheerfully. “I’ll go and fetch breakfast, you okay on your own for an hour?”

Arto grunts, which apparently isn’t good enough for Captain America. Steve tugs at his ear again and Arto yelps in protest. “Yes, I’ll be fine, I’m sleeping.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “I’ve got my cell, please don’t go anywhere.”

“Nnn,” Arto replies, already half-asleep again. He hears Steve leave the apartment and isn’t aware of much else until Steve’s return an hour later.

He’s re-awoken by the shift of the mattress as Steve sits on the end of his bed and a fraction of a second later the smell of breakfast foods hits him and he struggles groggily into a sitting position, grabby hands at the ready.

“Gimme.”

“Great, I've raised a feral child,” Steve says, but hands over a wrapped breakfast burrito without any further argument.

“Your fault that I've got a super soldier appetite,” Arto shrugs, shuffling up to sit against the headboard and unwrapping his burrito. Steve just lounges back across the foot of Arto’s bed, propped up on one elbow and eyes gazing absently out of the window. He looks tired, Arto thinks abruptly. Still young, but tired.

Steve stays quiet while Arto demolishes his breakfast and for a moment Arto thinks that that's it, that they're not going to talk about yesterday.

He may have momentarily forgotten that his dad is Steve Rogers.

He's just screwing up the wrapper and wiping sauce off of his chin when Steve goes for it.

“So. What we talked about yesterday.”

Arto cringes; here in the cold light of morning, when he's rested and not being an emotional wreck, his meltdown seems so stupid. “It's okay it's not a big deal,” he says quickly.

Steve just looks at him. “It clearly is a big deal. And if it's important to you I want to talk about it. Don't ask me to just sit by while you struggle. I'm not great at backing off at the best of times.”

That at least makes Arto smile weakly. “You suck at backing off.”

“Yep,” Steve agrees easily. “Though I've been trying. I mean, I never said anything about you and Peter skateboarding down the stairs. And after our first fall out about it I didn't ask you about Kate anymore. And I decided not to say anything about Bucky teaching you to box.”

Arto's mouth falls open, alarm flashing through him. “You knew about that?!”

“Yep,” Steve says, with a not-really-that-apologetic smile. “About once a year he asks me if he can teach you martial arts or boxing or something. Says it'd be good for you. Turns out he was right.”

Arto doesn't know what to say to that, so he just looks at his knees and fiddles with the corner of his pillow. “It…was good,” he finally says. “I get so angry sometimes and there was so much going on and it just…”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says simply, then he sits up and leans over, picking up a plastic bag that Arto hadn't noticed was by his feet.

“What’s that? More food?”

“Took a detour on the way to breakfast,” Steve says, hesitating. Oh god, he never hesitates about anything. “I might be way out of line here… but I want to help and I know that I'm super underqualified. So I got you these.”

He hands over the bag. Arto's unnerved enough by Steve's nervousness and doesn't say anything as he takes the bag and upends it onto his knee.

He freezes, staring down at the books.

“I know one looks like a kids’ book but it's got an adults’ guide in the back,” Steve says before he can react. “So you can read that bit? I’m not trying to be patronising or anything-”

Arto drops the bag. Finally reacts. He picks up the first book with a trembling hand and rereads the title: ‘Who are you? A kid's guide to gender identity.’ The second is called ‘The Gender Quest Workbook: A Guide for Teens and Young Adults Exploring Gender Identity.’

He drops the books and throws himself at Steve, almost knocking him off the edge of the bed as he hugs him. Steve returns the hug, squeezing him tight and burying his face in Arto’s hair.

“You didn’t have to, you didn’t,” Arto says.

“Of course I did,” Steve replies. “And I didn’t want to wreck this for you by not finding some help.”

Arto pulls back, not because he really wants to let Steve go but more because he wants to start reading. As he does he spots another bag by Steve’s feet. “More books?”

Steve shakes his head. “The same books. I bought a copy for me and maybe for the adults in the tower to read, if you wanted them to. I sent Tony a link for an E-copy too.”

There’s suddenly a painful lump in his throat, the double-whammy of Steve offering to read the books for him and mentioning Tony hitting him hard. He nods mutely, tries to think of what to say.

“I’m,” he tries, hears his voice crack. “I’m sorry you have to deal. With me.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve says sternly, reaching for him and cupping his face in his hands so Arto can’t turn away. “You are my son and I love you, even when it’s hard. You got that?”

“But I’m always difficult and I used to fight you guys all the time and I used to bite people, and I still get angry and I swear and I’m too strong and now all this, I made a scene in the gallery-”

“And you are you and I don’t care,” Steve says firmly. “Yes, you’ve got flaws but we all do. Hell, that temper you probably inherited from me anyway.” His voice is suspiciously thick but he’s laughing, and Arto is huffing out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh too.

“And with every bit of negative comes a positive,” Steve continues. “Yeah you used to fight us, but on the flipside you show us so much love. Yeah you get angry but you also have such passion for things. You’re super strong but you’re so gentle with Anna. And this whole gender thing? Like I said, you used to spend a hell of a lot of time dressed up as Cinderella. We had to wrestle that dress from you to put it in the laundry, I swear.”

And Arto is really laughing now, even as the tears finally fall. He nods. “I remember.”

“So then you get that this whole thing isn’t a complete shock,” Steve says. “Hell, when you were six you were adamant you were a shark for about a month. I love you no matter what you’re wearing or what you choose to put on the outside. And I mean, I dress up as the goddamn stars and stripes to go to work, who am I to judge?”

His sides now hurt from laughing. Arto collapses sideways across Steve’s lap, hands over his face as he laughs and laughs. It’s probably reaching a little hysterical but he doesn’t care.

Steve leans over him, resting his chin on Arto’s shoulder and wrapping his arms back around him. “And I’ll tell you now,” he murmurs. “Tony would say exactly the same as I’m saying, though probably with more metaphors and gesticulating.”

Arto burrows further into Steve’s hold. “I miss him.”

Steve nods against his shoulder. “Me too.”

Arto turns his face so he can peer up at Steve. “Can I call him?”

“You don’t need my permission for that,” Steve says. “He’s your dad.”

He ruffles Arto’s hair and Arto takes that as his signal to move.

  


* * *

 

Tony greets him by kissing the screen of the cell phone, of course he does. Arto feels his chin tremble and reaches out to touch his own screen, wishing he was there with Tony so he could throw himself at him for a real hug. Tony’s eyes are very bright. Thankfully, he doesn’t cry, just takes a deep breath and starts talking way too quickly. “So, press one to talk about my error in judgement, press two to talk about Peter Parker’s disappearing act, press three to talk about the books Steve just sent me.”

And sometimes, just sometimes, Arto wishes Tony weren’t so direct. It’s like having a conversation with someone determined to KO you. No wonder Steve does that thing where he screws his eyes shut and pinches his nose.

He sighs and holds up three fingers. Tony nods, face softening. “I vote for that one too. Me being an idiot is a conversation that can wait, let’s talk about you.”

Arto scrunches up his face. “Are you saying that because you don’t want to get shouted at?”

“No I’m saying it because you’re more important.”

Oh. That’s...Arto’ll take that. He nods, fidgets a little because he’s not sure what to say. He sits down on the floor with his back to his bed, holding his phone atop his tucked-up knees.

“I just…” he starts. “You didn’t like my nails.”

Tony rears back. “I never said that!”

“You called them ostentatious.”

“It means flashy, Art, I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Tony says. “Oh man, we need to get better at communicating, huh?”

Arto nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I think that might be part of the other argument though.”

Tony nods. “Message received,” he says. “God, I’m so sorry, Art. I should be there with you to help.”

Arto nods dumbly.

“What can I do? ” Tony says. “Tell me what I can do from here and I’ll do it. Anything, everything. Money or time no object.”

“I - I keep wanting things,” Arto blurts out, silencing Tony. “Anna had a headband and there was a dress, and I really like having my nails done. It’s not - it’s not about - I’m not gay, it’s not that.”

“Okay,” Tony says. “That’s okay, We can work with that. Hey, you remember when Clint was given a vagina by that thing on Asgard?”

Arto almost chokes. He could very happily go the rest of his life without ever hearing Tony say that word again. Regardless, he just nods. “Mostly,” he says. “I was only...six?”

Tony nods. “Yeah, and you were going through your Cinderella phase. But didn’t Natasha talk to you about gender identity then?”

Arto does remember. “Yeah, she did,” he says. “I don’t know if...I still feel like a boy.”

“So it’s a fashion and style issue rather than a body thing?”

“I don’t know, I’ve not read the books yet.”

“Okay,” Tony says. “You want me to read them too?”

Arto nods, and Tony offers him a tentative smile. “I love you, Smart Art. You know that, right?”

Arto nods. “You just were doing a bad job of showing it,” he says before he can stop himself, and Tony visibly flinches.

“Yeah,” he says, looking down. “Yeah, I fucked up.”

“I needed you,” Arto says, voice cracking. “And you were too busy.”

Tony doesn’t look up. “I know,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think and now I’m paying the price for it.”

Arto thinks of what Steve said to him before: _‘I guarantee, for as shit as we feel right now, Tony will be feeling worse.’_ He didn’t think that anyone could feel worse but the way Tony is looking right now...Steve was right. He doesn’t know what to say though, torn between doing something to make Tony feel better and letting him sit there and feel exactly as shit as he deserves.

Tony rubs his face, looks up to meet Arto’s eyes. “With your permission, I’d like to talk to Steve about this. About how we can help you.”

Arto nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You’re both my dads.”

He’s simply stating it as a fact, but it makes Tony well up alarmingly. He wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he says, voice thick. “Okay, are you taking this call to Steve or are we hanging up so I can call him?”

“I’ll take him this phone,” Arto says, his own voice wobbling. “Will you call me back tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, taking a deep breath and sniffing loudly, tipping his head back. “Yeah, tomorrow. We can - if you want, we can talk some more. I’ve got some things I need to-”

“Yeah,” Arto says hurriedly. “Not now. Tomorrow.”

Tony nods. “Alright. Hand me over to Rogers the taller.”

Arto nods and climbs to his feet, going to find Steve. He thrusts the phone at him and doesn’t want for a reply, just turns on his heel and flees, shutting himself in his bedroom. He throws himself down on his bed and lets himself cry, though he can’t tell if the tears are relief at getting to talk to Tony, fear over what’s happening with his stupid brain, anxiety at the impending conversation or sheer exhaustion.

He misses his home. He misses the rest of his family.  He misses his friends.

But despite all that, and the fact that he knows the fight between Steve and Tony is far from over...he knows he’s got both his dads in his corner and with that, things might all eventually be okay.

Holding onto that thought like a beacon, he stops himself crying and pulls himself together. And when he climbs out of bed, fetches his new books and starts to read, it feels like it's the bravest thing he's ever done.


	5. Chapter 5

Arto doesn't sleep. He's too busy staying up late, reading, thinking, searching the Internet for answers and thinking some more. It’s not really his strong suit - normally, when thinking about something starts to make him panic or feel too much, he either gives up or just kind of explodes.

He does throw the book across the room at one point, but he does go and pick it back up a few minutes later, so that barely counts as an actual explosion.

Apart from that minor hiccup…he finds that the fear of carrying on feeling like he did earlier is enough to make him stick at it. Wanting to avoid any more public meltdowns is a pretty good motivator.

As he works his way through the books, he finds it’s actually easier decide what he's not. When something doesn’t fit he takes a sharpie to the pages and literally crosses it out. It’s only when he’s been through the entire book does he realise that he’s crossed everything out, leaving nothing for him. That does make him panic, thinking that he's so messed up that there's not even a word for it.

When that happens, he finds himself running to Steve’s room, clutching his book in one hand and his pen in the other. He climbs onto the bed, heart thudding sickly in his chest.

“Steve,” he says, voice trembling. “Steve.”

“Mmmm,” Steve stirs. One eye cracks open.

“I’m not an anything,” Arto says. “Steve, I’m not any of the things.”

Steve pushes himself up, dragging a hand down his face. He shakes his head slightly and then leans over to click the bedside lamp on. He’s suddenly very alert and awake, in that weird snap way he does if the Avengers alarm goes off.

“Okay, talk to me,” he says.

Arto thrusts the book at him. “Nothing,” he tries. “I’m not.”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Steve says. “Let me look.” He flicks through the book, stopping at points where Arto has scribbled things out. “Alright, you’re trying to find a label? Yeah, okay, and you decided that none of these fit you. You know you don’t need a label right?”

Arto pulls at the corner of the book. “But there should be one.”

Steve sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Yeah I’d probably feel better with one too. Though the world isn’t black and white, not everything fits into a label or category.”

“That’s what Tony says,” Arto says, starting at the book. Then he realises what he’s said and winces. “Sorry?”

“No, you’re right,” Steve says absently. “I’ve kinda built myself a reputation for being black and white over some things.” He flicks through a few more pages, then passes the book back to Arto. “I don’t have the answer for you, Arto. This is one you’re going to have to figure out yourself.”

Now that’s what Arto was afraid of. “But,” he says, voice small. “But...I don’t know.”

“You’ve been at it for what...a few hours?” Steve says. “Don’t give up.”

Arto sighs. “You’re not telling me to go to bed and go to sleep?”

“Nope,” Steve says. “What would be the point? You never listen to me when I tell you to go to sleep.”

“True,” Arto says. “What do I do?”

“Keep looking?” Steve suggests. “Have a break? Take a bath and mull things over? Sleep on it?”

Arto thinks about it. “Reading in the bath?”

Steve smiles. “Sounds like a plan to me. Careful with your phone.”

“Sir yes sir,” Arto says, and he’s gone, leaving Steve to roll over and go back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He has his bath. He reads his books again. He looks through forums and chatrooms and advice sites and slowly things start to make sense. When he crawls back into bed at around two AM, damp and smelling like expensive bubble bath, he thinks he’s got it.

God, finally getting it feels better than what he normally gets up to in the bath, he swears.

He may not be anything in that particular book, but he is something. He’s a boy who identifies as a boy but who likes things and maybe clothes from different parts of the typical gender spectrum. It’s so simple that it takes him a while to trust it, thinking that this whole thing has caused him and everyone around him so much drama that it really can’t be that simple.

And then there’s another thing that blows his already taxed mind.

Change.

The Internet says that he reserves the right to change his mind.

He hangs into the revelation like its a lifeline, clinging to the idea that it's even okay to be a certain person now and change his mind later on. If next week, month or year rolls around and he decides he does feel more like a girl than he does now, then it's okay. If he never feels anything differently then that's okay too: he can stay as a boy who likes wearing all sorts of clothes, including the ones that other people might say are for girls.

With that in his mind and the panic retreating, he finds he can finally fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up in the morning and dozes for a while before he remembers - bath, revelation, identity, ahhh - that he has stuff he needs to tell someone, like now. Which is why he ends up climbing into Steve's bed at eleven AM, whispering his name in increasingly louder increments to get him to wake up.

“Mmm?”

Arto pushes at Steve's eyebrows, trying to get him to open his eyes. “Wake up. Again. I need to tell you something.”

This time it's an obvious struggle for Steve. There’s no more of that instant very awake thing - instead, he groggily sits up against the headboard, rubbing the back of his head and looking tired and lost again. He glances across the bed and as he does his composure cracks slightly.

Arto watches the look and then belatedly realises that it’s weird that Steve is still asleep at eleven AM.

Oh.

It's not just Arto having a really shitty time right now.

“Stay awake, I'll be back,” he says hurriedly to Steve, scrambling back out of the room. And when he returns, holding out a mug of coffee like a peace offering, Steve smiles weakly.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Arto climbs back into the bed to sit next to him, his heart swelling with pride and love. God he's so stupid lucky to have the family he has.

“So I read some more stuff in the books and on the internet,” he says as Steve sips at his coffee. He looks better already, more alert and less miserable.

“Did it help?”

“Yes,” Arto says honestly. “There's so many words, right? But I'm not any of them. I don't think, anyway. I'm not genderqueer or non-binary or transgender or any of those. I'm a boy. A man.”

“Still a boy.”

Arto glares half heartedly. “I'm seventeen.”

“Practically a baby.”

“Steve!”

“Okay, okay. What else did you find out?”

Arto huffs but does deign to keep talking. “I'm male, okay. I like being a brother and a son and a he. So my gender matches my sex, right?“

“But your taste in clothes doesn't?”

“Exactly! It’s that! Just that! It’s not complicated or anything, it’s just my taste in clothes! Well, I think anyway. It might just be some things, not like all clothes.”

Steve smiles at that, rolling his head again the headboard to look at him. “You seem much more okay with this than you did at eleven o’clock last night.”

“Well I did what you said. I read some more stuff. And I thought about it,” Arto says, pulling at the corner of the blanket. “There's more people like me. And - and it said that if I change my mind later on that okay.”

Steve nods. “That's true. You're not a finished article. I mean, look at Clint. How old was he when he got together with Bucky? He'd been straight up until that point.”

“Yeah,” Arto says, yawning. He still feels wired though, all giddy and hopped up on his discovery. “Can we go out today? Can you take me to get my nails fixed?”

“Nails are back on?”

“Yep,” Arto says boldly. “I like them so that's all that matters.”

“That's my boy,” Steve smiles. “Alright, give me an hour and then we'll go. Breakfast and nails?”

Arto nods. “Sir, yes, sir,” he grins back, and Steve laughs too.

 

* * *

 

They end up in a nail bar that's nothing like the one Natasha took him to. It's not as fancy and the staff barely glance twice at Arto, carrying on their own conversations in a language Arto doesn't recognise. They don’t even make a fuss about Steve, aside from a couple of people pointing him out to each other. Making a fuss over Captain America would probably get in the way of their frankly terrifyingly efficient work.

Steve sits on a stool next to his chair, just like Natasha did all that time ago. He seems very at ease, like going with his son to have his nails done is something he does every other Tuesday. He’s not even wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses, which he normally does when he doesn’t want to be spotted. He’s just sitting there, watching Arto swap his pink glittery gel polish for a bright blue, tapping away on his phone.

Arto thinks that it should be Steve wanting _him_ to get off of his phone. Something feels slightly backwards here.

"Steve," he says, nudging Steve with his foot.

Steve finally looks up. “No glitter?” he asks, leaning forwards to look at the samples on the counter.

“No,” Arto says. “Maybe next time. Maybe next time I’ll make Bucky come with me.”

“He’ll do it,” Steve shrugs. “Won’t bat an eye.”

Arto smiles. “I know. But he’s scary and I think it’ll be hilarious.”

Steve chuckles at that. “You know, I thought him having a baby would make him less scary,” he muses. “Let the world see his gentler side. But no, now he’s gone overprotective and downright terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Arto says. Steve's phone buzzes and Arto scowls. His dad gets more texts than him, how stupid and lame is that? He's normally texting all the time but now it's barely anything.

And he knows whose stupid fault that is. “Peter hasn’t tried to call me back.”

“Well you didn’t pick up the phone,” Steve says, thumbs tapping away again. Arto peers over but Steve angles the screen so he can’t see. “Should he be expected to keep trying?”

“I dunno,” Arto says. “He’s been a bad friend.”

“Yes, but you can’t really expect him to focus all his energy on trying to get through to you if you’re refusing to pick up the phone.”

Arto scowls. “He could try.”

“How much your friends care about you is not directly linked to how many times they try and call you,” Steve says firmly and far too reasonably. “You didn’t answer the phone. Ball is now in your court. Your move, pal.”

Arto huffs, annoyed that Steve hasn’t simply agreed with him. “But he has been a bad friend.”

“Him ignoring you for weeks is a dick move,” Steve agrees, glancing up from his phone. “But I think you’re in the wrong if you’re sitting there expecting him to expend loads of time and energy into grovelling.”

“It’d be nice to know he cared.”

“He probably wanted to tell you that he cared but you didn’t pick up the phone,” Steve repeats. “When you get a bit older...your best friends aren’t always the ones who are there constantly. They can be the ones who you don’t speak to all the time. It doesn’t make them any less your friend.”

“What are you talking about, your best friend is Bucky and Tony says you and Bucky are so codependent that you might as well be married.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Bucky’s already married, I can’t marry him,” he says, and then hastily backtracks, possibly when he sees the look on Arto’s face. “Sorry, bad joke. The only person I want to be married to is Tony.”

Arto narrows his eyes at him. “You better.”

“Cross my heart,” Steve says, then his attention goes back to his phone as it beeps. God, Arto would bet that he's texting Bucky right now. Steve must kind of read his mind, because the next thing he says it, “And besides, I have other friends. Not just Bucky.”

“Like who?”

“Natasha,” Steve says. “She’s one of my best friends in the world and I don’t speak to her every day. I can go weeks without talking to her, when she’s away on mission. Or when she’s just off doing her own thing.”

Arto thinks about that. “Don’t you get scared that she won’t be your friend if she’s not there?”

“Not at all,” Steve says. “I trust her to be my friend even if she’s not there for me to ask.”

Okay, that’s not where Arto expected this conversation to go. He honestly expected a conversation to make him feel better, not one that makes him feel dumb and wrong and like he’s got no idea how to be a proper person.

“You’re young,” Steve says quietly. “You can work all this out in your own time. Hell, when I was seventeen I would go knocking down Bucky’s door if I’d not heard from him. Couldn’t separate us for more than a day.”

“I thought Peter was my Bucky friend,” Arto says, voice small. The woman doing his nails taps at his hand and he trades her for his other one, distracted.

“He might be,” Steve offers. “I did eventually...Bucky went away to the army, right? I had to learn to be without him. But even if you and Peter don’t come out the other side exactly the same as you were, then it’s fine. Friendships change. He might be your Natasha friend. Or your Sam friend.”

“Sam is a great friend,” Arto concedes. “Do you talk to him every day?”

“No,” Steve says. “Most days. If I’ve not seen him in a few days I’ll check in.”

Arto nods at that. “I should probably text Peter,” he says. “But I’m still mad at him.”

“You’re allowed to be,” Steve says. “Just don’t drag him over the coals unnecessarily, okay? Do you what you need to do. If the friendship is important, you find a way to forgive him and you don’t keep taking it out on him.”

“Like you’re going to do with Tony.”

Steve nods. “Like I’m going to do with Tony.”

Arto thinks of Tony, back home. Thinks of the time he and Steve spent together, how they are together. Yeah they’re sickeningly in love and gross some days but mostly they’re just...they laugh. Smile. Talk about things. Bicker about things. Want to hang out together, even when they’re not doing a lot.

He misses that. Having Steve and Tony in the background of his life, just being together. He’s damn lucky. Luckier than Peter and Omari, luckier than La’Taya who doesn’t know her dad, luckier than half the kids he goes to school with. He nudges Steve’s ankle with his sneaker. “Tony’s actually your best friend, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, his smile getting stronger. He drops his voice to a fake whisper, makes a show of looking over his shoulder before turning to Arto with a wink. “Just don’t tell Bucky.”

 

* * *

 

He is in love with his new nails as much as he is the old ones. They’re so bright. He can’t stop staring at them. In the cab ride home he takes a picture and sends it to Natasha. She doesn’t reply and he realises that he didn’t expect her to - just like Steve said, she’s sometimes off doing her own thing. Now if Omari didn’t reply within an hour, Arto would suspect that something is wrong.

Just to prove a point to himself, he texts the same picture to Omari. Within a minute, he gets a text back that consists of four thumbs up emojis and the words ‘ _whoa that’s so bright it’s amazing.’_

No judgement whatsoever. Omari is possibly like a Sam friend, he thinks, and he can’t think of much higher praise than that.

The snow is coming down pretty heavily by the time the cab pulls up at the block in which the penthouse sits. Arto nails Steve with a snowball right between his shoulders, but Steve doesn’t retaliate, just ushers him inside.

“You’re no fun,” Arto says, brushing snow from him gloves.

“I’ll be fun later,” Steve says. “Got something to show you.”

Arto goes tense, immediately trying to guess and work out what Steve has done. Maybe he’s had an X-box delivered. Maybe there’s more pizza. Maybe it’s Tony, oh god if it’s Tony then Arto will have a heart-attack and die-

“TOW!”

And he pretty much has a heart attack anyway as he steps out of the elevator to find Anna toddling towards him as fast as her little legs can carry her. He makes a wordless exclamation and runs to her, scooping her up and making her shriek with laughter.

“Anna, Anna,” he says, pressing kisses all over her face. “I missed you, oh my god.”

“She missed you too,” says a voice and Arto looks up to see Bucky standing nearby and Clint leaning over the back of the couch, grinning. “Surprise!”

“What are you doing here?!” Arto says, bouncing Anna about and making her shriek.

“Came to see you,” Clint says. “I’ve got two days to hang out then I’ve got to go home for Young Avengers shit.”

Arto whirls around, points at Steve. “I knew you were texting Bucky, you were, weren’t you?!”

“Little bit,” Steve says, coming in and grinning at Anna, tugging his gloves off so he can buss her under her chin. “Hello baby girl.”

“Tee,” Anna says, the best attempt at saying Steve she’s had yet. “Tee, ub.”

She holds out her arms so Steve capitulates, taking her and giving Arto a chance to wrestle out of his coat. He tosses it onto the back of a chair and then clambers onto the couch, pushing at Clint for a hug. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, wants to blurt out all of his news and the things he’s discovered. He wrestles back out of the hug and opens his mouth, finds he can’t find the words so he just settles for shoving his hands in Clint’s face.

Eh, Clint’s smart. He’ll work it out.

“Whoa,” Clint says, jerking his face back out of fist range. He blinks Arto’s fingernails into focus, taking hold of Arto’s wrist. “Hey, new nails!”

“Yeah one broke, so I had to get them fixed so Steve took me out to get them fixed,” Arto explains in a rush. “It peeled off after I had a bath so I thought about just taking them all off and didn’t want them any more but then I did.”

Clint blinks. “That was a lot of words. Are you okay?”

“I didn’t want them and now I do,” Arto says. Damn, why is Clint not understanding this? Words, he needs more words. Which words though? _‘I like girl stuff_ _too now’_ seems completely inadequate, though it is kinda true. It would be the simplest way to get his point across obviously, but for as simple as it is it’s equally terrifying.

“Your dad is a billionaire, you can afford to get them done every other day if you want,” Bucky calls, walking around to take Anna so Steve can get out of his layers. She makes an indignant little sound, kicking her feet and squirming until Bucky rolls his eyes and puts her down. She runs at Steve again, hitting him in the shins and squealing.

“Give me like a minute baby girl,” Steve laughs. He tosses his coat aside and scoops her up again, tossing her in the air. Bucky makes a pained sound but Steve catches her as easily as he ever does, grinning at her and brushing his nose against her cheek.

“Remember the days where you were careful with her?” Bucky despairs.

“Hey, I’m careful,” Steve says, getting ready to throw Anna back up again.

“He means, remember the days when you were scared of the baby and treated her like she was made of glass?” Clint calls. “He misses those days.”

“I was not scared of the baby.”

“Yeah you were,” Arto grins. “So scared.”

“Lies and slander,” Steve says. He does stop bouncing Anna around though, keeping her held up with one arm. “When did you get in?”

Arto tugs at Clint’s hand. He doesn’t want them to start talking about flights and travel and boring things. He wants Clint to ask him more about his nails and his new stuff he’s got going on.

“Around an hour ago,” Clint says, apparently oblivious to Arto and the tugging. “She screamed the entire flight, so that was super fun.”

Bucky throws him an incredulous look. “You can shut up, you just turned your hearing aids off.”

“Yeah but people were still staring.”

“People stare anyway, we’re two not-small fellas with a baby. People spend ages trying to work out if we’re queer or not.”

“And you’re famous?” Steve chips in. “Don’t tell me no-one recognises you.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No one knows who I am and I’ve been an Avenger for like three hundred years.”

Okay so they’re bickering now, which means no hope of serious conversation. Arto mentally sighs and waits for an opening to change the conversation again. It’s alright, he guesses he can wait.

He lets the conversation wash over him, sitting down on the floor and poking around the toys that are already strewn over the carpet. Anna crawls over in short order, obviously having decided that being held is for suckers. He waves her toy piggy bank at her and she nods vigorously, pulling open the compartment to get the big fake coins out. He reaches over to help and she makes a sound of objection, pushing his hands away and clearly determined to do it herself.

He feels ten million times better already, just having Bucky, Clint and Anna here. He knows it’s kind of weird, how he lives with this whole extended family, but he’s not about to say or do anything that could change that in any way. He likes having them about, and besides Clint is basically his big brother and other people live with their brothers and shit. Although in his head Anna is definitely his little sister, but Clint is her dad so they can’t both be his siblings. And don’t even get him started on Bucky.

He should probably draw a new family tree or something. Though with Tony so far away, he doesn’t think he can bring himself to do it.

Anna shoves the last plastic penny into the piggy bank and throws her hands in the air like she’s scored a touchdown. Arto claps obligingly and flips open the side so she can get them all out again. From experience, he knows that this game can go on for quite some time.

“You’re so smart,” Arto tells her and she beams at him. She quickly glances at where Steve, Bucky and Clint are still chatting, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’re never gonna be on your own, ever,” he tells Anna. “We rescued you just in time.”

He thinks back to the white room. The one that keeps coming back in his dreams. Nightmares.

How he seemed to be there for so long.

He shakes his head. He’s not thinking about that, not ever. He’s got enough crap to deal with. Besides, he got rescued and that’s the end of it. He doesn’t need to think about it.

“Dada,” Anna says. He blinks himself back into the moment.

“Yeah, Dada is over there,” he says. “Dada and Dad and Steve.”

“Tee?”

“Yeah, Steve,” Arto says.

“Nee,” she says, popping the coins back into the piggy-bank. “Nee.”

Over the sounds of plastic rattling, he hears Steve asking about home. He doesn’t go over but he listens very carefully as he plays with Anna.

“Quiet,” Bucky is saying. There’s the clinking of bottles against the counter, the click and rattle of Bucky pulling off the caps with his metal fingers.

“Yeah, he’s been in the penthouse,” says Clint. “What? No.”

Arto shifts around so he can see a little better, putting his back to the other wing of the couch. Anna comes and plonks herself down on his knee, brandishing a book. He leans back so she doesn’t smack him in the face with the corner, watching as Steve leans against the counter, eyes fixed on Clint. He’s got a beer bottle between his fingers, tilting it back and forth.

“Buh!” Anna says, turning the pages of the book in big handfuls. “Buh!”

“Stark Industries work, mainly,” Bucky says, “Pepper flew in, you knew that right?”

“What?” Steve asks, rubbing his brows and looking pained. “No, I didn’t - when?”

“Yesterday.”

Steve takes several deep swallows of his beer. “Has she dragged him out of the workshop?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He’s not even been in the workshop since you left. He’s changed the codes, no-one can get in.”

Clint hums in assent. “He might have gone back in after we left but we don’t know.”

Stomach twisting up in a knot, Arto glances down at the book, helps Anna turn a couple of pages. She’s a comforting weight leaning back against his chest, and she still smells of baby even though she’s growing so quick. God he’s glad she’s here.

He risks another glance up. Bucky has shifted and has an arm around Clint’s shoulders, and he leans in to press a kiss to the top of Clint’s head. Clint is saying something to Steve who is shrugging and draining the last of his beer. As he does, he catches Arto’s eye, just a brief moment of contact before he looks back to Clint and Bucky.

“Come on, let me show you the balcony,” he says. “Art, you okay with Anna for five?”

“Yeah,” Arto says, even though he’s feeling kind of put out because if they go outside he won’t be able to listen in on what they’re talking about. He’s learned a lot in his lifetime by waiting outside doors and listening in on conversations that possibly don’t necessarily concern him, and now Steve seems to have gotten wise to the fact and is quite literally shutting him out.

“Buh,” Anna says, tugging at his fingers. “Tow, buh.”

“Yeah, book,” he sighs, and drops a kiss to the top of her head.

  
  


* * *

 

 

The rest of the day doesn’t really go his way, in that he doesn’t get to find out what the conversation on the balcony was all about, and he doesn’t get another opening to talk about his stuff. He wants to, he desperately wants to tell Clint everything but every moment seems to be wrong or just not quite right. Ugh. He’s a Rogers, he should just be able to do it. His dad might as well be an advert for freaking Nike or something; whenever he decides he wants to do something there’s very little that can hold him back. Tony’s a big fan of pointing that out on a very regular basis.

By the time they’ve talked some more, been for a walk in the snow to tire Anna out, had dinner, put Anna through her bedtime routine, watched a film, got ready for bed themselves...he’s about ready to explode. Trying to keep it in literally keeps him awake, so he finds himself tiptoeing down the hall to room number #2, the one Bucky and Clint have claimed. He deliberately makes noise when he gets close to the door, knocking very softly so he wakes Bucky but not Anna. Even as he pushes the door open over the thick carpet and waits for his eyes to adjust, Bucky is sitting up in the bed, rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

“Arto?”

“Can-” Arto whispers. “Can I talk to Clint?”

Bucky gropes across the lump that Arto presumes is Clint, picks up a phone off the shelf by the bed. “It’s like, two am, Short Round,” he says. “We’re sleeping.”

“Yeah,” Arto says. “But. Please?”

Bucky scrapes a hand over his face and nods. He shakes Clint’s shoulder, leans over to tap something against the side of his face with his metal fingers. Clint grunts, then a hand appears to smack its way across the shelf, groping around until it lands on his hearing aids.

“I’m up,” Clint says. “Arto?”

Bucky doesn’t reply, but does one of those patented Bucky moves that’s oddly sinuous and graceful, the sort of thing that he really looks too fucking stacked to pull off. He swings his legs out of the bed and slides out down onto the floor, crouching down next to Anna’s travel cot where it stands next to the bed. He gently reaches in, eyes intense as he checks her over.

Clint gets out of bed with infinitely less grace than Bucky, yanking a shirt over his head and stumbling across the room. He pushes Arto out of the room and follows him, yawning widely. It takes him a while to find his way to coffee, obviously not used to the layout of the penthouse apartment.

He’s got a cup in each hand and is squinting at Arto in the light. “What,” he says, sipping from the left cup. Arto reaches for the right one but Clint shakes his head with a clear nuh-uh sound, pulling it out of reach and taking a gulp.

“I wanted to tell you something,” Arto says.

“Shoot.”

“I,” Arto says. He looks around for a distraction. Anna’s piggy bank is on the counter so he flips open the side, fishes the coins out. It’s easier like this. Gives his hands something to do so the conversation isn't quite as intense. At least he’s talking to Clint, rather than Steve and Bucky with their super-soldier laser stares.

“I thought my brain was broken,” Arto says, slotting the coins back into the piggy bank as Clint takes alternating sips from his mugs of coffee. He doesn’t say anything though, just waits and blinks sleepily. Arto picks up another plastic coin. “It’s not. When Natasha took me to get my nails done it make me feel all weird. And then Bucky bought Anna that headband and I wanted one and it was even weirder and I didn’t know what was happening.”

“All this at the same time that Parker is messing you about and Tony is…?”

“Yeah. Bucky says I’ve got a lot going on.”

“You do. So. You had a crisis about your nails and Anna’s headband?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. I’m still straight. And I’m not….transgender or anything. I’m male.”

“In your body and in your brain?” Clint asks with a small smile.

“Yeah,” Arto smiles back, then looks down at his hands. “But...I think I like clothes from everywhere. From boys and girls.”

The words hang there, out in the open. He doesn’t think Clint will say anything bad but it’s still so scary, that moment where it’s out there and there’s nothing he can do about it. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and when he looks up, Clint is just watching him with a small smile on his face, nodding like he gets it and he knows. Arto slides off his chair and happily falls into Clint’s arms for a hug.

“You are a very brave, very amazing small super-soldier,” Clint says. “And I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”

“I don’t even have anything yet,” Arto says. “Well, just my nails.”

Clint grins, lets him go and picks up both of his mugs to raise them in a toast. “Everyone’s got to start somewhere,” he says. “And for you...well, somewhere just happened to be pink sparkly nail polish.”

Arto huffs out a laugh, and then they both turn as they faintly hear the sound of crying. “Aw, baby, no,” Clint grimaces. “Shit. I better…”

“Yeah,” Arto says. “Yeah.”

Clint pauses. “You gonna tell Bucky?”

Arto thinks about it. “Can you tell him for me? I don’t mind him knowing but I don’t wanna...saying it out loud is making me tired.”

Clint gives him one last hug - still with coffee mugs in both hands- and heads back to Anna and Bucky. Arto watches him go and then switches off the light before padding along to the master bedroom. He pushes the door open and jumps onto the bed, making Steve jerk away and groan sleepily.

“I told Clint,” Arto says, pulling at the blankets and climbing into the bed.

“Good,” Steve murmurs, dropping his head back down onto his pillow. “D’you wanna talk about it?”

“No, I’m okay,” Arto says, settling down on the side of the bed that would normally be Tony’s. “I’m staying here.”

“Mmmffn,” Steve replies, already half-asleep.

Arto watches for him a moment and then quickly leans over to kiss Steve on his forehead, before dropping back down and closing his eyes.

 


	6. Chapter 6

He’s up in the morning before Steve again, who seems to have turned into some strange, star-spangled, hibernating creature. He didn't even sleep this much that time he got back from chasing that Hydra guy across Europe, and he didn't sleep for six days straight while that was going on. Arto doesn’t wake him, just slips out of bed and heads straight for where he can hear Bucky-Clint-Anna noises in the kitchen. Plus he can smell bacon, so that’s a damn good incentive to get up.

“Morning-” Bucky says, cuts himself off when he sees it’s Arto and not Steve. “Is he _still_ asleep?”

“Yep,” Arto shrugs, frowning as Bucky marches out of the room. Arto goes to say hello to Anna, who is busy staring at some cartoon on the TV, standing around three feet away from it and occasionally bobbing frantically up and down when the cat character appears. Clint is manning breakfast, multitasking with frying bacon and cutting up fruit.

“Can I have bacon?” Arto asks.

“Yeah, why not,” Clint says, hopping back on one foot and cursing as the pan spits oil at him. Serves him right for cooking shirtless. Ugh, and he’s got a hickey on his chest, Arto is fed up of seeing Clint with his hickeys, he’s too old for that kind of shit.

“You’re gross,” Arto says. Clint gives him the finger. Arto sticks his tongue out and Clint reaches over, pretending to snap at his tongue with the tongs he’s using for the bacon. Arto’s about to retaliate by throwing a banana skin at him but he’s distracted by Bucky returning with Steve in tow. Steve looks tired and pissed off. Bucky is looking like he doesn't give a shit that Steve is tired and pissed off.

“More bacon needed,” Bucky says. “Steve is banned from moping around in bed.”

“I’m not moping,” Steve scowls, and Bucky just gives him his best ‘ _bitch, please_ ,’ look. Arto’s torn between being grateful that Bucky is kicking Steve’s ass into gear and wanting to kick Bucky because hello, Steve is sad and that’s Tony’s fault, not his.

They’re midway through breakfast when Clint chokes on his pancakes, eyes on his phone. He thumps himself on the chest, holding the phone out towards Steve. Steve takes it warily, and then as he looks at whatever it is, closes his eyes and makes a face that does not bode well for anyone. “ _Sh-_ ” he begins, and then cuts himself off. Good, because Bucky has taken to pinching people who cuss in front of Anna.

“What?” Arto asks, reaching for the phone. He’s not expecting Steve to hand it over so he’s a bit taken aback when he finds himself with the phone in hand. He glances down and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach when he finds himself and Steve plastered over US weekly.

 _‘Steve Rogers and son leave New York WITHOUT Tony Stark’_ screams the headline. The rest of the page is speculation as to why they are there, an unnamed source saying that Stark has been contacting divorce lawyers, and also that Cap has taken his kid to the Art Institute of Chicago and to get his nails done again. There’s even a link for a whole story that’s apparently dedicated to Arto getting his nails done.

“Divorce lawyers?” Arto says, his voice sounding strangled. He looks at Steve, who is very pale.

“No,” Steve says. “That’s bullshit.”

“Call him,” Bucky says.

Arto expects Steve to reiterate that it’s just bullshit but he doesn't. He just stares like he’s confused by what’s happening, then nods curtly and walks out of the room. Mouth hanging open, Arto stares after him.

“No,” Arto says. “No, that’s bullshit.”

“Probably is,” Bucky says, going round to scoop Anna up. “Let’s confirm.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then from within the apartment, Arto hears Steve yelling. Bucky hands over Anna to him without a word and marches in the direction of the shouting. It gets momentarily louder and then goes quiet.

“Why is everything going wrong?” Arto says blankly.

Clint comes to stand next to him, leaning on the counter and passing Anna a piece of strawberry. “I have no idea,” he says.

Bucky comes back in short order, sans Steve. “Steve may have not been too tactful about how he started that conversation, Stark flipped his lid because he has in no way shape or form even mentioned divorce and he’s pissed off that Steve thought it was true. Which I don’t think he did, but yeah. He didn’t open with that.”

“They would never get divorced,” Arto says. “Right?”

No-one answers him, which is possibly the shittiest answer they could have given.

“That's not for us to say,” Bucky finally says.

“Steve said they’ve not split up,” Arto says.

“And Tony has said that he’s not divorcing Steve, so there’s your answer,” Bucky says. He picks up his jacket from the back of the couch, swings it on. “Okay. Steve wants to be left alone, so Arto, me and you are going out.”

“Out?”

“Yeah, I need baby supplies and thought you might wanna do some shopping.”

A strange thrill goes through Arto at that, a response to the implication in Bucky’s words. “Shopping for me?”

“Well, I took Steve’s credit card so yeah, might as well,” Bucky says.

“You’re gonna go without Anna?”

“Hey, I can go places without her,” Bucky says. “Some days.”

Arto doesn’t get up yet. He looks at Clint, who nods. “Yeah, I told him,” he says. “He knows full well that shopping may or may not include the men's department and the women's department.”

Now that’s terrifying. The thought of actually doing it. But maybe terrifying in a good, exciting way. “Can we...look?”

“Sure, we can look,” Bucky says. “Get your coat.”

Arto does. He gets his coat, hat and gloves and then ignores what Bucky says and goes to say goodbye to Steve anyway. He’s sitting on the couch in his room, staring out the window at the snow. Arto tells Steve where he’s going and hugs him tight. He tells him that he knows Steve and Tony won’t ever split up and Steve’s eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t actually cry though. Just nods and then gently shoos Arto out, telling him to text him if he needs him.

Arto leaves and shuts the door behind him. He leans back against it and takes a deep breath.

Shopping.

That’s something he can do.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky takes him to the magnificent mile. It looks so pretty in the falling snow, and there are loads of cool landmarks scattered along its length but Arto is more excited about the fact he’s in the city's premier shopping district and he’s got Steve’s credit card in his pocket. His stomach is all tied up in knots in a kind of good awesome way, and every time he looks into a shop window and sees something glittery or pink or floaty the sensation pulls tight.

Bucky asks him if he wants to go into pretty much every store he glances at but he shakes his head at the first few. He’s happy just to look. Well, that is until Bucky stops dead in the middle of the street and says, “pick a shop, Short Round, or imma start pickin’ for you.”

He shoves at Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky doesn’t even move an inch, simply raises a bored eyebrow. Flushing, Arto elbows him in the stomach and then darts into a bustling Gap store before Bucky can elbow him back.

Bucky catches up with him as he’s skulking around in a selection of navy-colored, hooded sweatshirts, pulling at the drawstrings in the collars. Bucky sighs. “You have plenty of sweatshirts. I know this, because you steal mine.”

“Maybe I want one that your stupid arm hasn’t frayed.”

“Maybe you want one in pink.”

Arto’s eyes slide up over the store. He can see a mannequin wearing pink leggings and a light denim jacket and it has a flowy pink and white scarf draped around the shoulders. He wants to go over and run the scarf through his fingers. But between him and the mannequin there’s a group of girls about his age and they’re all giggling and one of them is super pretty and if he goes into the women’s section they’ll all think he’s gay or something and he’s _not._

Bucky comes to stand by his shoulder. “The jacket? No. The scarf. It’s the scarf, isn’t it.”

“Bucky!” he hisses. “ _Stop_.”

“Never,” Bucky says. “We’re on a mission here.”

“No, because then if _they_ see me then they’ll think something and I like _girls_.”

Bucky looks between him and the group of girls and gets it, of course he does. “Who cares what they think?”

“I care what they think!”

“You shouldn’t care what they think.”

“But if I start picking out girl clothes and they-”

“But you want the clothes,” Bucky says emphatically. “You can’t worry about what other people will think right now, we’re doing this for you.”

“We can’t, not now. I’m going to get a normal sweatshirt. A normal boy sweatshirt that doesn’t make me seem queer or like- like I think I’m a different gender-”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. Oh no. Oh no, that doesn’t bode well for Arto. “Don’t make me make a point.”

“Don’t make a point!”

“I’ll do it.”

“Bucky!”

But It’s too late because Bucky is leaning back and cupping his hands around his mouth like a goddamn megaphone, and he shouts, “GENDER IS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT” loud enough for the whole freaking store to hear. Everyone nearby freezes and _stares_ at them and Arto could honestly just die right then and there. He’s going to strangle himself with the drawstring from the hoodie to escape the embarrassment.

Then a voice from somewhere within the shop shouts back, “Hear, hear!” and all Arto can do is laugh. He breaks down into hysterical giggles, clinging onto the rack in front of him as Bucky starts to laugh too.

“As you were,” Bucky nods at a scandalized looking salesperson, all polite smiles before he turns back to Arto with a shrug. “Honestly, who gives a shit?” he says. “I can find a guy who loves me even though I’m a chewed up vet with one arm and some serious anger management issues. You’ll find a girl who likes you, no matter what you’re wearing.”

And Arto is nodding, letting go of the rack so he can slump into Bucky instead, wordlessly asking for a hug. Bucky does, briefly wrapping his arms around him and squeezing before letting go and stepping back, making Arto stand up straight.

Bucky looks him right in the eye with that laser focus he has. It’s unnerving. “Look, I’m sorry you’ve been dealt another curveball, another thing that you’re gonna have to fight for,” he says seriously. “But honestly, you’re a Rogers, you’re built for fighting. Just pick your battles.”

“So you’re saying...don’t hide it and fight anyone who says bad things about me?”

“Well yeah, just don’t tell your dad’s that I told you to fight anyone,” Bucky says like it’s obvious. “Look, it’ll be hard. It’ll take a lot of energy. But you’ll get to be you and you might help a whole bunch of other kids who feel the same way as you. ”

Oh. Arto had never thought of it that way. He’s sort of famous, seeing as his dads are Captain America and Iron Man, and if he goes out there and does his own thing maybe it will make it easier for other people to do their own thing. Though that idea seems huge and scary right now, and he’s not sure he’s cut out for being a role model anyway.

“Okay,” Arto says, taking a deep breath. “But...can we do something...less obvious?”

Bucky looks thoughtful, crossing his arms across his chest. “Alright,” he says. “What have you got in mind?”

 

* * *

 

 

They get home a few hours later, with Bucky carrying a new leather jacket for himself and Arto carrying a box that he’s clutching to his chest like someone might try and take it away from him. They’ve also got copious amounts of double-stack burgers to feed Steve and Clint, because they’re nice like that.

The elevator spills them back out into the warmth of the apartment. Clint is at the stove heating something up and Anna is drawing on the wall and Steve is there letting her, oh _my god._  He’s sitting cross-legged with a pack of wax crayons and together they’re drawing all sorts all over the brilliant white walls of the lounge. Well, Steve is drawing stick men and sunshines and unicorns. Anna is drawing scribbles, but Steve praises her for each one and offers her more colors, and Arto loves his dad so much he feels like he needs to pinch him or push him over or something, just so he gets how much Arto actually loves him.

He settles for asking for a hug instead. A proper one, where Steve squishes him so tight it feels like his organs are being smooshed. Anna comes to join in as well, leaning against him with an ‘ahhhhh,’ and patting at Steve’s face with her hand.

“Did you find anything you liked?” Steve asks.

Arto nods. He doubles back to get his box. Hesitates, then thrusts it into Steve’s hands. Steve takes it without question, flipping open the lid and pulling out the pair of sneakers that are nestled inside. He looks for like two seconds and then he’s smiling, the biggest dumbest proudest smile that Arto’s seen him wear in a long time.

“They’re definitely you,” he says, running his finger across the pink laces.

“They’re from the women's section,” Arto says. He flips one over to show Steve the pink soles, before turning them back around so he can show him the glittery silver, white and baby pink of the sides. “They’re women’s shoes.”

Steve looks thoughtful. “Well. You bought them. So technically they’re your shoes.”

Arto has to hug him again for that. Steve kisses the side of his head. “Want to wear them round the apartment?” he murmurs.

Arto pulls back and grins. Yes. Yes he does.

 

* * *

 

He puts the shoes on and stands there staring at his feet for a good few minutes, feeling like there’s a balloon in his chest that’s full of joy and rainbows and skittles and shit. He takes around fifty photos and painstakingly goes through them all to find the best one. When he finds it, he sends the snap to Nat and Omari and then after a while, he sends it to Peter as well.

Omari calls him back literally two seconds after the message clears to Peter. Grinning, Arto answers it and throws himself back onto his bed.

“Hey.”

“Are those yours?!”

“Yeah.”

“They’re like - you’ve never had sneakers like that before.”

“No, they’re from the women’s section,” Arto says. “But I don’t care, I like them.”

“Cool,” Omari says happily. “But what if anyone at school says anything?”

“I don’t care,” Arto says, choosing to not share about his own panic about the same thing earlier. That was earlier and he’s over it now. “They’re so cool. And they’re super comfy too.”

“They’ll go well with your black jeans,” Omari says. “You know the ones with the rip in the knee?”

“Oh yeah!” Arto enthuses. He picks at the corner of his pillow. “I was thinking of like. A jacket. To match.”

“Glittery?”

“Pink.”

“Not leather.”

“No?”

“No. Too gay.”

“Okay. What?”

“Just like a hoodie or something,” Omari says. There’s the sound of shuffling on his end of the line. “I’ll send you a picture.”

“Denim?”

“No. Though regular blue denim would be okay.”

“Bucky has a denim jacket somewhere.”

Omari laughs. “You can’t keep taking Bucky’s clothes!”

“He just bought himself a new leather jacket, he won’t need his old one.”

“It'll be _way_ too big for you.”

Arto ignores that. “He wears it over a hoodie. I could do that. But a pink hoodie, not a black one.”

“Is pink your new favorite colour?”

“Possibly,” Arto says. “How’s school?”

“Boring,” Omari says. “Too cold.”

Arto makes a sympathetic noise. He knows how Omari feels when his scales get too cold. It’s like Bucky’s metal arm but worse.

“Oh!” Omari says. “I did hand in the paper on Bucky though. Haven’t had it back yet.”

“Did anyone else write about Steve?”

“Couple of people. I know Thomas did.”

“Ugh. Thomas needs to get a life,” Arto sighs. “He only ever talks to me to talk about Steve.”

“Thomas does need to get a life,” Omari agrees. “Hey, Peter said he tried to call you and you didn’t pick up.”

Arto goes very still. He tries to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah. I wasn’t ready to talk to him,” he says weirdly defensive. “He ignored me for weeks and then Tony gave me the trip for Christmas…”

“Oh yeah, the Caribbean thing?”

“Yeah and you know I’d take you-”

“Sand in my scales, no thanks.”

“Yeah so I wanted Peter to come but now I don’t even want him to.”

“Just because he hasn’t picked up the phone?”

Arto frowns. “Well…”

“We’ve been friends with Peter for like...nearly four years? And you’ve fallen out with him enough so that you’re never going to talk to him again?”

Arto stares at his shoes. “Okay yeah. Now I’m being a dick, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not a dick!” Omari says. “I just want us to get over this and be friends again.”

“I sent him a picture of my shoes,” Arto says. Omari doesn’t answer right away and he senses their rapid fire chatter about Peter is over. Time for a subject change. “Hey, I think Steve’s depressed. He keeps sleeping all the time and the news said he and Tony were getting divorced.”

“What?!” Omari asks, sounding outraged. “No.”

“Yeah that’s what I said,” Arto says. He sighs, turns to stare out of the window at the darkening sky. “He’s...acting weird. I don’t like it.”

“It’ll be okay,” Omari says, and then his next words are lost in a gasp.

“What?”

“Your dad is on TV!”

“What?” Arto scrambles to get up, new sneakers getting caught in the bedding. “Which one?!”

“Tony!” Omari says. “It says tonight is the annual Stark Charity Gala?”

“Oh shit, the January Gala,” Arto says. “Shit. Shit. Okay, I gotta go, I’ll call you later.”

“Bye!” Omari yells and then Arto hangs up, tossing the phone aside and sprinting from his room back into the lounge.

“Don’t turn on the TV!” he shouts, but damn shit _fuck_ he’s too late. The giant TV is on and Steve is standing there with the remote in hand, staring at the news anchor who is happily smiling away next to a picture of Tony and Steve at last years gala. Oh god, picture-Tony is holding up a hand in a wave and picture-Steve is looking at picture-Tony, beaming like he's the best thing in the whole universe.

Shit, Arto can’t remember the last time they looked at each other like that.

“-with Captain Rogers, who according to reports, is currently in Chicago,” the anchor says. “Whether the pair will attend the gala as expected remains to be seen.”

“Nice try, Short Round,” Clint says, with an apologetic grimace. “Hey, the shoes look good!”

Yeah his shoes look amazing but more importantly Tony is on the TV and Steve is staring at it and the gala is tonight and Steve and Tony have been together every year since they got married and this year they can’t because Tony is there and Steve is here.

“Turn it off,” Bucky insists, throwing a piece of popcorn at the TV. “Steve, stop torturing yourself, you freaking martyr.”

“You have to be dead to qualify as a martyr,” Steve says distractedly. “As if they’re reporting on this like it matters.”

“It does matter,” Arto says forcefully.

Steve takes a deep breath. He gnaws on his lip then flicks the TV over onto a kids' cartoon channel for Anna. “Yes, it matters to me and us,” he says. “But it shouldn’t be national news.”

“You’re a national treasure,” Bucky grins. He lifts his bowl of popcorn out of Anna’s way, trading her for a cut up grape. “A national icon.”

“Like Mount Rushmore,” Clint says, starting to laugh.

“Yeah, I’m old, laugh it up,” Steve says, tossing the remote aside. He reaches over, pulls Arto into a hug, rocking them side to side, swaying so far that his feet tip off the floor, one after the other. He does that for a while and then states the obvious by saying, “I’m not going.”

“Well, duh,” Arto says, letting go of him with one arm and twisting around so he can look at Bucky and Clint. He likes it here, being nestled under Steve’s arm. “You’re here and it’s in New York.”

“I _should_ go,” Steve says, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “To stop the gossip.”

“No,” Bucky says slowly, like he’s explaining something to Anna. “You go and you and Tony will end up yelling at each other on a nationally televised event.”

“I could hold it in for one evening,” Steve says.

Bucky and Clint make identical disbelieving noises. Anna looks between them and blows a raspberry, looking very pleased with herself.

“Don’t go,” Arto says, looking up at Steve. “Tell Tony to come here instead. Neither of you go.”

Steve fishes his phone out of his pocket and hits speed dial. Arto holds his breath but it rings and rings and then goes to voicemail, Tony’s voice telling them to not bother leaving a message because he won’t check them. Steve makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and shoves his phone back into his sweats. “Whatever,” he says, and pulls Arto back around into a bone-crushing hug.

“Dad!” Arto protests, pushing ineffectually against Steve’s chest. “Get off!”  

“Never,” Steve says, but he does let go, ruffling Arto’s hair as he goes. “Now. Who wants anything else to eat?”

Arto looks over at Bucky and Clint who both shrug in tandem. Damn. Never mind him being the awkward and uncommunicative one, it’s his freaking parents that people should really be looking out for.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is in the shower and Clint is putting Anna to bed when Steve wanders into the lounge and turns the channel over. Slouched down on the couch with his new sneakers on the coffee table, Arto makes an indignant noise, mouth full of cookies.

“Oh please,” Steve says. “You were texting Omari anyway.”

Actually, Arto was texting Peter. Peter had replied to the shoes picture with a series of exclamation points and now Arto is stuck trying to make up a text for Peter that doesn’t come across too angry or needy, and one that requires Peter to text back because he doesn’t want the back and forth to end.

_‘Bought them today. You like them?’_

There. Casual text about shoes. Super, super casual. That’ll do.

“I’m texting other people, actually,” Arto says. “Put the hockey back on!”

“Nope,” Steve says, and sits down on the edge of the coffee table. Arto glances up and his heart has a fit as he sees flashing lights and a red carpet and people in beautiful suits and dresses.

“I don’t want to watch the gala!”

“I do,” Steve says. “Gotta earn my tortured martyr points somehow.”

“Dad, don’t!” Arto says, wriggling around to kneel on the cushions. “You’ll just get sad again and-”

And he stops talking because on the screen there’s a load of screaming and the flashes go insane and the camera cuts to a very familiar Audi R8 pulling up at the end of the red carpet. Arto scrambles forwards to kneel on the coffee table behind Steve, leaning over Steve’s shoulder.

“You are too heavy for this,” Steve says, shifting under Arto’s weight.

“Not,” Arto says and reaches up to put a hand over Steve’s eyes as Tony-on-the-screen climbs out of the car. Steve bats his hand away and together they watch as Tony ignores the reporters, instead going around to the other side of the car to open the passenger door. For a brief moment, Arto panics that Tony has done something unprecedented - inconceivable, un _fucking_ believable - and taken a date that is not Steve which is not allowed, but then Natasha appears and he slumps forwards in relief.

“Did you know Natasha was going with him?” he asks, eyes glued to the screen.

“No,” Steve says. “He’s not picked up the phone all day.”

“Idiot,” Arto says, but regrets it as Steve turns to glare at him.

“That’s enough,” Steve says.

“But he-”

“Yes I know,” Steve says. “But still. Do not call him an idiot like that.”

Arto slides back onto the couch, sullen. Luckily Clint comes in before he has to summon up a decent apology. Clint takes one look at the TV and gasps, clutching the front of his shirt. “Aw, Natasha, no! Did you know this was happening?”

Steve blinks at the TV, watching as Tony offers Natasha his arm. “Nope,” he says and goes up to get a beer from the kitchen.

“Aw, she’s cracked out the Valentino dress, she means business,” Clint says distractedly, sitting down next to Arto. “Steve, her cleavage looks better than yours."

Steve ignores the joke. In fact, he is starting to look distinctly unimpressed, though Arto can't tell if that expression is being directed at Clint or at screen-Tony. "Maybe she’s wearing it to distract from the fact that Tony looks like shit.”

“He does not,” Arto says, though he can tell that Tony’s not his usual pristine self. His suit is impeccable but Arto catches the bags under his eyes and the tired look on his face just before he slides on a pair of sunglasses. He looks back over his shoulder at Steve but Steve is just staring at the TV with a look of intent that he normally reserves for battle formations and super villains.

“He does too. I’m going to get Bucky,” Clint says, getting up and walking out of the room without looking away from the TV, tripping over a pair of boots on the way.

Arto looks from the TV to Steve and back again, agonized. “Want to turn it off?”

Steve slowly shakes his head. He swallows hard enough so that Arto can see his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Back on the TV, a reporter has managed to get Tony and Natasha to stop. They’re excitedly talking about the good work of the Stark foundation. Natasha smiles serenely and politely and Tony nods and answers some questions about the charities that they’re supporting. A PA or something appears to chivvy them along so they say thank you, nodding and moving down the carpet-

And then Tony turns back to the reporter and holds up a finger, says, “Okay just one more thing.”

Behind him, Arto hears Steve make a strangled sound. Bucky runs into the room with Clint right on his heels; Bucky has just a towel wrapped around his waist and skids to a halt so suddenly that Clint crashes into his back, nearly dropping the baby monitor that he’s got clutched in his hand. “What did we miss?!”

“Shhh!” Arto flaps at them, grabbing the remote and turning it up.

“So you were supposed to ask why I have the beautiful Ms Romanov as my companion instead of my husband,” Tony says. The reporter makes a noise a lot like Steve just did. On screen, Natasha’s mouth twitches.

“Well, the focus is on the foundation,” the reporter manages.

“Is this live?” Steve asks suddenly. “Please tell me this is not live.”

“Shhhh!” Bucky and Arto say together. He turns the TV up another few notches.

“Well, it’s the Stark Foundation, so it’s really half and half,” Tony says. “Mind if I call in some exposure on the Stark part for a moment? Yeah okay. So my better half is not here tonight because I, as a genius who never likes to admit he’s wrong, have to say that I got things wrong and upset him enough so that he’s not here tonight.”

“Stop talking,” Steve says. His hands are on his head. “Tony, stop talking.”

“We are still very much married and in love,” Tony says with a one shoulder shrug. “But I made a tactical error and boy am I paying for it. But I would like to take this opportunity to say lesson learned. Cap, I have understood the consequences of my actions. You were so right and I was wrong and I will never, ever do anything like that again.”

“Oh my god!” Steve bursts out. “Can’t he just talk to me like a normal human being?!”

On screen, the reporter is trying to regain some composure. Her smile looks very forced, glued in place to try and cover the startled look that she did have going on. “That’s very cryptic.”

“Where is my fucking phone,” Steve is ranting. “Oh my god I am going to kill him.”

Tony grins. It’s so fake, Arto can tell. “He’ll get it. Anyway, I better go. My companion for the evening is getting bored-”

So, this is what people mean when an event is like a car crash in slow motion. Arto watches as Steve finds his phone and hits speed dial. Eight hundred miles away, and with only the slightest lag in the feed, Tony at the gala abruptly stops listening to the reporter and picks up his phone.

“Good evening, beloved.”

“Get off of the carpet _right now,_ ” Steve says, sounding dangerous. “Tony, stop talking.”

On the TV screen, Tony takes the phone away from his ear and leans back towards the camera. “What do you know, he got my message.”

 _“Tony!”_ Steve bellows into the phone.

“Okay, I need to take this call,” Tony-on-screen says smoothly. He leans in and kisses Natasha’s cheek and then just walks away without another word. Natasha steps in and starts talking about the foundation but Arto isn’t listening to that, he’s listening to Steve who is still yelling.

“-instead of picking up my calls you pull a stunt on live TV in front of the whole world,” he shouts. “And I - well yes I heard what you said! Yeah, I just. I just. I just.”

And then he sits down heavily on the edge of the couch and starts to cry.

“Whoa, shit,” Clint says, alarmed. “Arto, get.”

“What? No!” Arto protests but Clint steps in to hustle him out of the room. He would object but he knows that if he resists then Bucky will come to help and Bucky has a metal arm and is only wearing a towel.  

“I want to listen,” Arto says, even as the three of them are tumbling into his room, Bucky shutting the door firmly behind them. “What did Tony _do?_ ”

“Oh man,” Bucky says, sitting down on the corner of Arto’s bed, rubbing his fingers through his damp hair. Clint sits down behind him, presses a quick kiss to the space between Bucky’s shoulders.  Bucky heaves out a sigh. “If he keeps hurting Steve like this-”

“I know, I know,” Clint says. “Calm down, Bucket.”

Bucky snorts with tired laughter but nods. Arto stares at them for a moment, kind of caught off guard by the kissing and the name calling and stuff. They do know this is his room and not theirs, right?

“Seriously, what did Tony do that means he needs to apologize on TV?” Arto says. “Will someone just tell me?!”

“Stop yelling, Anna’s next door,” Bucky says without looking up at him.

“But I need to know,” Arto says, perilously close to whining. He clears his throat. “Please.”

“All in due time, Short Round,” Clint says, and tips over backwards so he’s lying on Arto’s bed, holding the baby monitor to his chest. Bucky twists around to look at him and then seems to decide that Arto’s bed is good enough for him too; he shuffles around and lies on his side with his head pillowed on Clint’s stomach. Arto considers telling him to get his mostly naked butt off of his bed, but Bucky’s looking a bit weird and tired and sad so he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks over and joins them, jumping up onto the bed and crowding up against the headboard in what is pretty much the only space left.

“Things will be okay,” Clint says, reaching up and down at the same time, awkwardly patting both Arto’s knee and Bucky’s shoulder. “It will.”

Bucky just grunts in reply. Arto doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

It’s only around twenty minutes later when Steve comes to find them. He knocks softly and then edges into the room, trying to look all normal and shit. He misses by like a mile, because his face is all pink and blotchy and it’s _really_ not a good look on him. He swallows hard, holds out the phone towards Arto. “Tony has skipped out on the gala and he’s still on the line. He wants to talk to you. Says he needs to come clean with you too before we even talk about going home.”

Arto scrambles up, almost kicking Clint in the head as he climbs off the bed. He feels a little bit sick. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Steve passes him the phone. His lip is trembling and his eyes are all shiny and weird like he's gonna cry some more. Arto wants to reach out and grab his hand, but he doesn't. He's seventeen, he can deal with this without holding his dad's hand.

Probably.

Arto lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“So. First I didn’t think I had to tell you squat about what I was doing in the workshop,” Tony says without preamble. “Then when I realized just what a fucking idiot I’d been, I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I was right,” Arto says, but it doesn't feel as great as it normally does. “I knew you’d done something, when we were driving up here I said I knew. ”

“Yeah,” Tony admits. “You're smart.”

Arto swallows hard. If being smart means working out that bad shit is happening, maybe he shouldn't be so smart. And Tony's a genius and he's clearly done something dumb, so maybe intelligence is overrated.

“Where are you?”

“Um, in an empty conference suite at the venue. It’s cool. It’s my gala, I can skip as much as I like.”

“Dad,” Arto says, closing his eyes. “Please just tell me.”

“Okay,” Tony says. “You want me to video call? Or I’ve got a suit here, I can get to Chicago in like two hours so we can do this face to face.”

“Just tell me,” Arto says. His heart is going quicker than it was, starting to race against his ribcage. He feels like a frightened mouse, some small creature that's being held in place by giant, unfriendly hands.

“Alright, here we go,” Tony says. Arto hears him take a deep breath. “So. I was messing around with nanites, right? They're microscopic robots. Smaller than red blood cells, like an eighth of the size. And we cooked up a way to use them in a way that’s equivalent to the super-serum. In theory, these nanites could be injected into a person and they'd be able to fix cells, keep them healthy. Could possibly cure all sorts of diseases and...other stuff. Keep cells healthy for longer.”

Arto’s confused. “But - Steve wouldn’t be angry about that, why would he be angry about that?”

Tony pauses. “Because. The work we did was connected to my DNA. We weren’t sure that the prototype nanites would work with anyone else’s cells.”

Oh no.

“And I was so convinced it would work...I was so desperate for it to work that I decided to just go ahead and test it on myself,” Tony says. “And Steve was so angry because at that point we were only eighty-three percent sure it would work as intended.”

“Eight - eighty-three percent?” Arto echoes. “You wanted to test it on yourself and you were only _eighty-three_ percent sure it would work?”

“Wow, sounding way too much like your father there.”

Arto ignores that. Panic is rising in his throat, clawing up his spine. It’s joined by anger, too, a slow red haze that’s making it harder to breathe and talk and think. “What - what would have happened if you hadn’t got - hadn’t got the eighty-three percent?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says. “I - I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, _you don’t know?_   What's the worst that could have happened?”

There's a long silence.

“It probably would have done nothing,” Tony finally says. “But there was a possibility that it could have put me in a coma or killed me.”

“No,” Arto says, blankly. “ _No._ ”

“Arto it was the _tiniest_ possibility,” Tony is saying. He’s close to pleading and that frightens Arto more than anything. “It was - fuck, it was so small but I shouldn’t have even risked it. Even if it was point zero zero zero three of a percent, I shouldn’t have risked it because I have you and Steve, and the world of modern medicine could wait a few years for the nanite project to be cleared properly by the-”

Arto drops the phone.

He pulls his knees up. His hands go over his ears. “No,” he says. “ _No._ ”

He’s aware of Steve kneeling down next to him, a hand on his shoulder. All he can do is rest his forehead against his knees, breathe shallowly in and out through his mouth and try and not think about that seventeen percent.


	7. Chapter 7

Arto wakes up sweating and shaking, feeling like he’s going to throw up. Scraping a hand over his face, he gropes for his phone to check the time. Fuck, it’s only one AM which means he’s been asleep for all of an hour.

That fucking room again. It seems like every time he shuts his eyes he’s back there with white tiles and trembling floors. He would have thought he’d be having dumb nightmares about Tony and injections and nanites and things going terribly wrong, not about that stupid lab.

He sits up against the headboard, pushing his fingers through his sweaty hairline. He wants a drink of water. He wants his friends. He wants to go home. Right about now, the idea of being sat on his couch with Peter and Omari next to him seems like heaven.

But. Going home meets facing Tony and that’s not something he’s sure he can do.

He creeps out of his room, intending to go fetch a glass from the kitchen. He gets as far as the lounge and stops in the doorway because Steve in there, sitting on the couch with his phone to his ear. He’s leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, head ducked low-

“I want to come home,” Steve is saying. “I know, yes, I know. We can deal with the press, we’ve been dealing with the press for ten years.” He pauses, laughs unsteadily. “No. Not forgiven for that. The whole country saw your stunt- no I don’t know the ratings, the point is that...yeah, that’s exactly the point.” There’s another long pause, he’s obviously listening. And then he says, “Yes. Okay, okay, we’ll come home, I’ll get everything packed up in the morning-”

“No.”

Arto is barely aware of how loud he snaps the word, not until Steve jerks his head up in shock. Arto shakes his head, hands balling into fists. “We are not going home, he nearly killed himself and you’re forgiving him and saying that we’re going home?!”

While he’s been yelling, Steve has hung up the phone and tossed it aside. He walks over to Arto with a hand extended and a concerned look on his face and for a split second Arto thinks about shoving him, hitting him, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, shaking and welling up with hot tears.

Steve’s hand settles on his shoulder. “I know,” he says evenly, “But we have to go home at some point.”

“No,” Arto repeats. “Why are you forgiving him? He could have _died_ , he would have left us all alone and we’d have to be alive without him-”

He descends into tears. Steve folds him up into a gentle hug, one hand resting on the back of his head. “I know,” he whispers. “I said exactly the same things when I found out.”

“Why are you forgiving him then?”

“Because I love him,” Steve says. “And not being with him because I’m angry that he did something that might have meant I would have to be without him...there’s not much logic in that. Would kind of be cutting off my nose to spite my face.”

“What the fuck is that even supposed to mean,” Arto chokes. “I’m so angry at him.”

“Angry because you’re scared of losing him though, right?”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he should get away with it.”

“You heard him earlier. He’s learned his lesson,” Steve says calmly. “But I do understand that you’ve not had long to process. We won’t go back until you’re ready.”

The relief is so strong it’s almost enough to knock him down. He just nods into Steve’s shoulder, feeling suddenly both very young and somehow older than he ever has before.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up in his own bed the next morning. He’s tempted to stay in it all day but Bucky, Clint and Anna are leaving today and he wants to see them off. With that in mind, he drags himself up and through the shower, getting dressed and slipping his new sneakers on. His pulse quickens slightly at the thought of wearing them outside - where people can _see_ \- but it’s in a good way. Mostly good. Maybe ninety percent good ten percent bad. Maybe eighty-twenty.

He knows he’s probably coming across as moody and sullen but no-one seems to mind, not even when he puts his headphones on for the cab journey to the airport. He’s still feeling all twisted up about Tony and the stupid nanites thing and blocking out the rest of the world kind of helps.

They get to the airport, and he suddenly realises that some shit is going down because Bucky is crouching down in front of Anna’s pushchair and kissing her, expression wavering. He then stands up and pulls Clint in by his shirt so he can kiss him, before promptly turning on his heel and walking away.

“What,” Arto says, pulling his headphones off.

“Bucky’s staying with you two a few more days,” Clint says, watching him go. “He’s bad at goodbyes. If he cries, it’ll ruin his rep.”

“He doesn’t need to stay-” Steve begins wearily.

“He wants to,” Clint says. “He’s fine, he’s been away from her on missions before. And besides, we leave you two unattended and you’ll end up slobbing around all day feeling sorry for yourselves.”

“We will not,” Arto says indignantly, overlapped immediately by Steve saying, “Yeah I guess.”

Steve sighs, shoves his hands in his pocket. “You gonna be okay flying solo?”

“Yeah we’ll be fine. Natasha is gonna pick us up at the other end,” Clint says. He’s patting his hands over his pockets, checking them all twice before finding his boarding pass in the first pocket that he’d checked. He clamps it between his lips as he starts another pat-down for something else. “Ar, oo anna ay oogaye?” he tries, before Steve reaches over to take the pass for him. He nods in thanks, tries again. “Art, you wanna say goodbye? We better get moving. I need time to lose and find my boarding pass five times over before we leave.”

Arto takes the hint and sinks to his knees in front of Anna, leaning in to kiss her. She makes an indignant little noise of protest, pushing at his face with her chubby little hands. Arto laughs weakly and pretends to bite at her fingers, making her giggle. He stands up, finds himself pulled into a hug by Clint.

“Call me if you need anything,” he says and then he’s gone, pushing Anna’s stroller towards departures. He gets about five steps before he’s about turning, grinning sheepishly as he retrieves his boarding pass from Steve. He salutes - which Anna does her best to copy and it’s so cute that Arto could cry - and then they really are gone.

Steve and Arto catch up with Bucky outside. He’s standing near the cab rank and smoking, looking pretty calm considering that he just walked away from Clint and Anna. “Come on,” he calls, words muffled around the cigarette that’s clamped between his lips. He’s got his hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched up by his ears. “I’m freezing my nuts off over here.”

“How much would I have to pay you to stop shouting about your nuts in public?” Steve asks, signalling to a cab and reaching back to guide Arto along, a hand on his shoulder.

Bucky drops the cigarette to the floor, grinds it out with his heel. “You don’t have that kind of money, sugar,” he says, pulling open the cab door. “Come on, let’s go. I want a beer.”

Steve gives him a _look_. “It’s not even lunchtime.”

“Wow, golly gosh, mister Captain America can tell time,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes as he climbs into the front of the cab, leaving Arto and Steve to get in the back. “Beer, second breakfast and retail therapy. We are not sitting around in the apartment all day.”

“Okay. Beer, second breakfast, retail therapy, then actual therapy,” Steve says, leaning over to tap Arto’s knee. “I want you to call Julia.”

Arto shakes his head violently. He hasn’t had sessions with Julia in like eighteen months and he’s not about to go back to that. That’d be like undoing all his progress, like literally going backwards.

“It’s happening, make peace with it,” Steve says, peering out of the window. “Either that or I drive you to her office and you do it face to face.”

Arto scowls, slumping down in his seat. “I don’t need to talk to her.”

“Yeah you do,” Steve says. “At least talk to her about the nightmares even if you don’t want to talk about anything else.”

“Make a list,” Bucky says from the front. He’s slouched down so far in the seat that he looks like he’s trying to slide off of it into the footwell. “You can talk about dismantling gender constructs then your crazy parents then the nightmares.”

“Buck,” Steve says reproachfully.

“What?” Bucky twists around to look at them, then snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah, I forgot to add your best friend being an ass to the list. Tell Julia about that.”

Steve reaches forwards to shove at Bucky’s face, but Bucky leans back too quickly, knocking the hand aside.

“Stop it,” Arto insists, reaching out to pull Steve’s hand back. “I’ll talk to her if it means you two stop talking about it.”

Bucky and Steve pause and share a look, then they both shrug and sit back.

“Deal,” Steve says.

“Deal,” Bucky repeats. “As long as Steve calls _his_ therapist.”

“Ha, good joke,” Steve says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. For one wild moment Arto thinks that a Steve is going to call a therapist but when he leans over he sees that Steve is just scrolling through his work emails.

Arto frowns, sits back with a huff. “Steve doesn’t have a therapist. Does Sam count?”

Bucky laughs so hard he nearly cries. Steve just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Don’t tell Sam he said that-”

“Already texting,” Bucky gleefully informs him from the front. “Short Round, you are hilarious.”

They start bickering again. The cab driver does an admirable job of ignoring them, keeping his eyes on the road. Arto’s a little nonplussed by the whole thing if he’s honest. Though he is kinda glad that they’re laughing at each other again. It goes a long way to making things feel almost normal.

 

* * *

 

 

They get beer - milkshake for Arto - and second breakfast and then hit the shops. With Steve and Bucky flanking him Arto’s less panicked about browsing all the different sections of the stores they go in. Even with Steve’s credit card and permission to go nuts, his heart isn’t completely in it; he’s too distracted by thinking about home and Tony and how he pretty much wants to go back never, despite what Steve says.

Doesn’t stop him buying a new pink sweater though, or a super long white tank top with a hem that floats around his knees. If he wears it over leggings it’ll look a bit like a skirt. That freaks him out a little, but not enough to stop him loving how light and floaty it is. If he spins around, it twirls around with him like he’s a ballerina or some shit.

He does call Julia too. It’s awkward and stilted until he just snaps and starts blurting out everything he’s feeling about Tony and Peter and Steve and his own identity. Julia endures it pretty patiently, even when he’s crying and not making much sense. He does feel better once it’s all out there, and he even agrees to schedule an appointment to go see her when he’s home.

He’s barely been off the phone for a minute when it rings back at him. He thinks it’ll be Julia calling back to tell him that he is in fact crazy but it turns out to be Peter, which is exactly what his poor shredded nerves need right now.

He considers ignoring it but remembers what Omari said before. And anyway he misses Peter so much it hurts. So much that he’s already cancelling his plan to stay in Chicago forever.

He takes a fortifying breath, sits down on his bed.

“Hey.”

“Arto, where are you?! You’ve not been at school for like a week.”

He frowns. “I’m in Chicago.”

Peter sounds flustered, tripping over the ends of his sentences before running out of steam and tailing off. “Well, Yeah, I know,Tony said you had gone to Chicago, that was like a rhetorical question, I was just...Yeah.”

Arto feels a strange frisson of not quite panic, a twist that could be anger, could be jealousy, could be something entirely different. “What do you mean Tony said?” he asks. “Have you spoken to Tony?”

There’s a pause. “A little?”

“Okay you are not allowed to talk to Tony,” Arto says. He’s not above begging, mostly because for some reason the idea of Peter being all pally with his Dad right now makes him want to scream. “Please, _please_ don’t talk to Tony.”

“What?”

“He fucked up and he hurt Steve, you can’t just talk to him like it’s normal, and he’s my dad!”

“Okay okay, calm down, Arto I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“What, like you’re sorry for ignoring me for weeks?”

There’s a long silence.

“Yeah,” Peter says, sounding small. “Yeah. I am sorry. I really miss hanging out with you.”

Arto swallows back a scream. “I never stopped you.”

“I...I just had some shit going on. I’m so, so sorry.”

“What shit?”

“I can’t tell you. I wish I could.”

“You can. We’re meant to be best friends.”

“We are. I just...I can’t tell you this one. I wish I could but I can’t. You’re still my best friend, but I just can’t…”

“Sure,” Arto says. He’s trying to be super chill about it but he thinks he might be missing the mark slightly. “Okay. Yeah.”

There’s another long silence. It’s never been like this before. They’ve always had endless things to talk about, could stay on the phone for hours if left to it. But now there’s a big gap between them and Arto doesn’t know what to do.

“I like your new shoes,” Peter finally says, sounding hesitant.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “They really suit you.”

“People at school will give me shit about them,” Arto says.

“No they won’t, you’re a super soldier,” Peter says, starting to laugh. “The Winter Soldier drops you off in the morning, no-one will dare say anything.”

By the time he’s finished, they’re both laughing. Arto tries to stop but Peter sets him off again, and every time Peter stops, Arto starts giggling again and they’re off again.

When they’ve calmed down enough, they chat for a little longer about school, about Arto’s new shoes, about the plans for the Manhattan Island Marathon swim. They don’t talk about the not-talking, or any of the other big issues, but Arto doesn’t care. He’s got Peter talking to him like everything’s normal, and that’s enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Doubt starts to creep in the moment he hangs up the phone. He’d told Peter that he’d be back soon, but he doesn’t know if that’s true or not. The more he thinks about it, the more he misses home. But then the moment he thinks “well fuck it, I’ll tell Steve we can go back,” it makes him feel just _terrified_.

 

* * *

 

 

Arto gets his own way about the TV that night; instead of watching any dumb galas or celebrity gossip he puts on Gladiator. He’s possibly seem the film eight hundred times but it’s a classic.

“I could be a gladiator,” Bucky says, sprawled out on the couch, tapping away on his phone with his thumbs. “I’d be great at it.”

“Yeah, you just need a tragic backstory,” Steve agrees.

“Babe, I have _the_ tragic backstory,” Bucky says. “I’d have a trident. Be like aquaman, but with less fish and more murder.”

“Babe?” Arto questions, craning his head back to look at Bucky. He’s sitting on the floor leaning back against the couch, mostly because that puts him close to Bucky and Bucky has the candy.

Bucky frowns at his phone. “Steve is a total babe.”

“Ugh,” Arto says. “Can you not.”

“I’d have a shield,” Steve says, leaning forwards to add another empty beer bottle to the collection he’s got going on on the coffee table. Arto’d be worried if he didn’t know that the stuff doesn’t touch Steve in the slightest.

“You do have a shield,” Arto points out.

“If I was a gladiator,” Steve says. “I’d still have a shield.”

“You can’t win a gladiator fight with a shield,” Bucky says. On the TV, a gladiator with a sword does his damnest to best the hero of the story. “You need a weapon.”

“Fine. A shield with sharp edges,” Steve says, heaving himself up off the couch. “Want a beer?”

Bucky and Arto both say yes. Steve hands one to Bucky and gives Arto a can of cola. Eh, was worth a shot. Steve slumps back down onto the couch and for a moment everything is quiet and calm and okay, until there’s a loud knocking sound that cuts through the apartment. Steve leaps up off the sofa like he’s been electrocuted, diving for his shield; Bucky lunges for his backpack which has been sitting innocuously by the end of the couch all weekend; Arto feels his heart slam up into the bae of his throat, whipping his head around to try and find the source of the banging-

The window.

_Iron Man._

He’s hovering on the other side of the glass, repulsors flaring bright against the dark of the night sky. Arto can only stare, now feeling like his heart has upped and left his body entirely.

“Asshole!” Bucky is the first to recover. He’s got a hand inside his backpack, probably holding onto a knife or ten, like he thinks if Arto can’t see them he’ll be stupid enough to assume that Bucky’s not armed.

Steve doesn’t say anything. His jaw clenches tight and he puts his shield down, folding his arms across his chest. Arto stares as Iron Man shifts slightly, enough so that Arto knows he’s looking at him. A red and gold armoured hand comes up in a wave.

“What is he doing here?” Arto asks, throat feeling all tight and painful.

“Coming to speak to you,” Steve sighs. “But instead of catching a flight and using the elevator like a normal person.” He gestures to the armour that’s still hovering outside the window.

“You’re not exactly normal either,” Bucky points out. “Christ, let him in before the whole city works out where we are.”

“No!” Arto protests, but Steve is already moving. Shield still in hand, he goes over to the balcony door and opens it. Tony shoots Arto a thumbs up then arcs round gracefully to land on the balcony with the oh-so familiar thud of metal on concrete.

“Want me to stay or go?” Bucky asks quietly.

“You can go,” Arto says, eyes locked on Steve and Tony. Tony straightens up and flips the faceplate of the armour. He looks tired, chin covered in uneven stubble instead of his usual well-shaped goatee. He’s speaking rapidly to Steve, who is apparently hearing him out and then nodding, stepping aside so Tony can come in.

He gets inside and Steve closes the balcony door with a decisive thud. All Arto can do is stand there like he’s been glued in place or something, his heart thudding sickly as the armour opens up, allowing Tony to step out barefoot onto the carpet.

“I miss you so much that I think I’ve actually gone crazy,” he says without any preamble. “And I was going to stay out of the way and do my time but I can't do it, Art. I can’t. I love you, and I love Steve and you’re my goddamn family and I know I fucked up but don’t ask me to do this without you guys. I’ll do anything. I’ll - I’ll burn everything on the Extremis project. Hell, I’ll give it to Reed Richards. Anything. You say it, I’ll do it.”

And Arto feels his resolve crumble. He’d wanted to stay mad at Tony for forever, because being mad at him was easy when compared to all the other feelings he’d have to face, but he can't. He can't do it, Tony is his dad and he loves him and he misses him-

He’s across the room in four steps, flinging himself onto Tony. Tony wobbles back a step under his weight but recovers enough to wrap both his arms around Arto’s shoulders, holding him tightly enough to make breathing difficult.

“You’re so stupid, you could have died,” Arto chokes out.

“I know. Idiot of the year award,” Tony says. “I made the wrong call. I was doing it for the right reasons, but I made the wrong call.”

“Yeah you did,” Arto says, thumping Tony between his shoulder blades. “Steve, where are you?” he asks, face still buried in Tony’s shoulder. “Steve!”

And he gets his answer in the form of a warm body pressing close behind him, another set of arms wrapping around him. He starts to cry, mainly from relief.

“So I should have expected that,” Steve says. “True Stark style.”

“Why would you expect anything less,” Tony says. “Hey, kiss me.”

And Arto is too exhausted and over-emotional to call them on on the fact they’re kissing right near his face, which is ew, gross. He just stands there and lets himself be held like he’s six all over again.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve goes to talk to Bucky, leaving Arto to awkwardly stand there, wondering what to do now. Tony wanders around, looking the place over like he’s never seen it before, stopping to admire the artwork that Steve and Anna left all over the wall.

“I like it. Very modern. Clean lines. Colours.” Tony waves a hand vaguely at the wall. “Hey, my home has an original Rogers on the wall. Probably doubled the value. I’ll call in an agent. See if I’m right.”

“Uh, you’re babbling,” Arto says.

“Yeah,” Tony sighs, still staring at the wall.

“Tony,” Arto says, and Tony blinks himself out of his reverie and looks over.

“Yeah?”

“I dunno,” Arto says.

They stand there in silence again. This seems to be happening a lot with the people in Arto’s life. Great. His usual fun and banter replaced by long and awkward silences.

“Are you staying?” Arto asks.

Tony shrugs. “I didn’t exactly plan this very well,” he says. “I jumped in a suit and flew straight here and neither thought of the consequences or packed a toothbrush.”

“That’s why you need Steve,” Arto says. “He’s good at planning.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, and his mouth flickers in a smile. “Hey, you know I wasn’t going to divorce him, right?”

“I didn't know anything,” Arto says, crossing his arms tight across his chest. “No-one was telling me anything.”

“Curse of being a teenager. You think you’re all grown up and ready to handle everything, the grown-ups in your life still see you as a kid.”

Arto opens his mouth to argue but then realises that yeah, that’s probably exactly right. He looks down at his feet, wriggling his toes in his thinning Hulk socks. “I want you to stay,” he mumbles.

“You sure? You’re pretty mad at me,” Tony says. He sounds so unsure, so cautious. It doesn’t feel right at all.

“Yeah,” Arto says. “Come and watch the film.”

“If you insist,” Tony says. Arto feels a tension he didn’t know he was carrying dissipate at that, realising that he was automatically bracing himself for Tony to say no, that he was too busy. Maybe he _has_ learned. Maybe it’s just because there’s no workshop here for him to go in.

He doesn't want to think about it. What he wants to do is sit with his dad and just watch some quasi-accurate, roman ass-kicking. So he curls up on the couch and shoves all the pillows aside so there’s space for Tony. He gets the hint and drops into the space; the easy familiarity of his makes tears prickle in his eyes. This is all he’s wanted for months, just for Tony to be here with him like he used to be. He turns into Tony’s side, resting his head on his chest and tapping his fingers against the edge of the arc reactor.

“I got you,” Tony murmurs.

“You never had any time for us,” Arto mumbles.

Tony inhales and exhales heavily, his chest moving under Arto’s cheek and hand. “Yeah. I’m a workaholic and I’m not going to apologise for that, but I apologise for crossing the line.”

“Are you going to go back to working on the nanite thing?”

Tony sighs again, strokes a hand over Arto’s head. “I want to,” he says. “It’s a project that could revolutionise modern medicine. But...I’m not going to be using myself as a test subject. I’m not going to put you guys in the position where you have to worry about me.”

Arto nods slowly, staring somewhat vacantly at the screen. Movement on the other side of the room makes him look up; Steve steps back in, looking tired. Arto and Tony both simultaneously hold out a hand, reaching for him. His mouths quirks in a weary smile but he walks over, taking their hands in his.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Tony’s staying,” Arto says. “He’s staying tonight.”

Steve’s eyes flick between them both. “Is Tony agreeing to this or are we going to have to sit on him and make him stay?”

Tony pulls Steve in closer, so he ends up kneeling on the couch cushions next to them. “You’ll have to throw me out the window to make me leave.”

“Tempting,” Steve says, but he twists around and flops onto the couch with them, laying his arm along the back. He wriggles sideways so his hip is pressed to Arto’s back, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

“So, is this us officially calling a truce?” Tony asks, aiming for casual.

Arto twists around to look at Steve. Steve lifts an eyebrow and Arto nods.

“Yeah, truce,” Steve says. “Now quiet, I’m trying to watch the film.”

Arto smiles and shuffles further into his spot, splaying his hand over the arc reactor. Steve heaves out a sigh behind him, and Tony reaches over to settle his hand on Steve’s thigh.

Arto thinks that they might still have some sorting out to do, but for now he’ll take it.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Now Arto knows full well that Tony goes to bed in the spare room, but the next morning when Arto knocks and walks in, the bed is empty. He narrows his eyes as his brain starts putting two and two together, backtracking out of the room and down the corridor to Steve’s. Yep, there he is, sleeping next to Steve with his arms and limbs sprawled out like a starfish. Steve's on his side, mouth hanging open and one hand resting inbetween Tony's shoulder-blades. Arto stares for a moment and then decides that yeah, he’s cool with it.

He takes a long shower, gets dressed in his new shirt-dress and leggings combo, slouches into the kitchen-living area to find both his dads awake and making out in front of the refrigerator, which is kinda just inconsiderate.

“Gross,” he says loudly. Steve jumps back from Tony like he’s been electrocuted, face going red.

Tony looks at him, nonplussed. “Steve, I think he knows we kiss sometimes.”

Steve sends a withering look right back at him. “He doesn’t know we talked it out and made up.”

“Well the making out can be our way of telling him that.”

Arto just wants food, honestly. They can do whatever they like but they’re in the way and that needs to be remedied before he dies of starvation.

Luckily, the universe has given him a Bucky Barnes to have his back. Bucky stomps in with bedhead and a scowl and looks between Steve and Tony before pointing between them. “Step away from the Keurig. Take any funny business away from breakfast.”

“There is no funny business,” Steve insists.

“You’re turning into Barton,” Tony snorts. “Will kill for coffee.”

“Pancakes,” Arto says, leaning over the counter and turning beseeching eyes on Tony. “Please?”

Tony sighs but capitulates and within half hour he, Bucky and Steve are digging into a mountain of handmake Stark pancakes. Once he’s fed and able to focus on anything but his belly he starts thinking about the whole Steve-and-Tony making up and making out situation. He’s still distantly aches with hurt over Tony’s choice to put himself at risk, and if he remembers the arguing and shouting it makes him feel really unsteady…

...but on the whole, he thinks he can deal with it. He’ll take a few healing emotional scars in exchange for his family back together.

 _Healing_ , he thinks idly, scraping a strawberry through the syrup on his plate. That kind of feels like where he’s at now. Not okay with everything, but getting there. Besides, he knows he’s potentially got a difficult path ahead of him, if he wants to forge ahead with wearing - well, not girl’s clothes because like Bucky said, once they’re on him they’re his clothes and he’s a boy. But his wanting to wear things that are typically feminine is going to ruffle feathers and it’ll be so much easier if he’s got both his dads in his corner.

“You okay, Smart Art?”

He looks up, meets Tony’s concerned gaze. Reaches out on instinct, gently touching the crinkles next to Tony’s eyes. “I’m okay,” he says, dropping his hand. “I’m...healing.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, understanding. “Me too, I think.”   

He drops his eyes back down to his plate. He weirdly feels different than he did when he arrived in Chicago, like he's a completely different person. He can’t quite work out how though. Maybe he’ll ring Julia about it. Maybe. Keeping his phone out of sight under the table, he fires off a quick text to Omari, something along the lines of ‘ _Tony showed up in Chicago he literally flew here we’re sorting it out now.’_ He sends it and then quickly forwards it to Peter too. He catches Steve quite blatantly watching him text under the table, but is pleasantly surprised when Steve just smiles and gives him an eye roll. With that taken as permission, he quickly texts La-Taya and Natasha too.

Across the table, Bucky belches loudly and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “So, if you guys have worked this out and are gonna be chill I’m gonna go back home to my baby.”

“I am always chill,” Steve says, and is levelled with three matching looks of skepticism. “Okay, I’m mostly chill.”

“Stop saying chill, you’re too old to pretend to be cool,” Arto says, and Tony chokes a laugh into his coffee before setting it down and looking up expectantly across the table.

“Alright, if Buckaroo is going home, what are the rest of us doing?”

Arto’s not surprised at Tony’s lack of tact so he’s not bothered by it. He does look up at Steve though, meets questioning blue eyes across the table. Unfortunately he’s not telepathic so he and Steve have got no way of deciding what to do without the others butting in.

“How about…” Steve says slowly. “We didn’t get all the way around the Art Institute. Let’s try that again, get some lunch, see where we’re at.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tony says immediately, and if flying all the way to Chicago didn’t prove just how much he wants to make things right, volunteering to go to an art gallery certainly does.

“Okay,” Arto agrees. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“Alright, I’m out of here,” Bucky says. “I’ll call you when airport security undoubtedly freak out and don’t believe my medical certificates.”

“Alright,” Steve laughs, and gets up to give Bucky a hug. Arto’s second in line, elbowing Steve out the way so he can throw himself at Bucky.

“Thank you,” he whispers fiercely. “For everything.”

“Anytime,” Bucky replies, then ruins it by ruffling Arto’s hair with his metal fingers. “Later, loser,” he grins, and then he’s gone before Arto can even formulate any kind of retaliation.

 

* * *

 

Tony is so obviously bored with the world of art within a grand total of ten minutes into the visit. He keeps walking around in circles; he moves on quicker than Steve and Arto then loops back when he’s figured out they’re not right behind him. They wander at a decidedly more leisurely pace rather than keeping up with Tony’s relentless march through the exhibits. Steve watches it all with a sort of fond exasperation. He makes no effort whatsoever to speed up, though he does keep his mouth shut when Tony pulls out his phone, dropping all pretence of looking at the art. They pass the portrait of Saint George and the dragon again, and Arto feels a strange sort of gratefulness towards the picture. He’s still in a constant state of mild panic about people questioning his sexuality, but he’s doing his best to ignore it. At any rate, the panic isn’t enough to override the joy he feels at wearing his new dress-top and trainers, so it’s okay really.

They settle down for lunch in the cafe, even though several members of the public have spotted them and a couple are either staring or trying to discreetly take pictures of them on their phones. His initial reaction is anger, wanting them to go away, though it’s followed by a less angry ‘ _bitch better get my shoes in shot_.’ It makes him literally laugh out loud, a loud snort that has Steve looking quizzically his way.

He shakes his head, grinning into his sandwich. Maybe he’ll talk to Steve about setting up an Instagram of his own. Then he can make sure he gets his damn shoes in the shot.

Opening his mouth to pitch the idea to Steve, he doesn’t get a word out before Tony’s beating him to it.

“So I’m not going to shut down the Extremis project but I am going to hand it over to Sue Storm. Richards. Whatever.”

Arto nearly chokes. Steve reaches out to thump him on the back, eyes fixed on Tony.

“You might wanna run that past me once more.”

Tony puts his phone down. “I still know the project can be valuable. So scrapping it is not an option. Considering my self-regulation is less than consistent, I’m going to let someone else be in charge. Someone who respects FDA regulations and nonsense like that.”

“So you won’t be in danger?”

“Well I won’t be testing anything on myself,” Tony says. “I’d like to work on the project...but Sue could theoretically shut me out completely.”

Steve sighs. “I don’t want you anywhere near that damn project,” he says, and holds out a pacifying hand as Tony’s mouth opens in outrage. “But I recognise that that’s my fears reacting and it’s not rational. Or fair on you.”

Tony nods slowly, looking impressed. “Look at us, having a real mature conversation. In the middle of a cafeteria in the world’s most boring museum.”

“Just because you have no taste,” Arto chips in.

“What the kid said,” Steve says, and he smiles. “Thank you, Tony.”

“Sure,” he says. “I’ve been speaking to Sue about it for a while, if you wanna call her and check it out-”

“I’ll want to know the details,” Steve admits. “but I don’t want to be overbearing.”

Now that makes Arto raise an eyebrow because one of Steve’s major character defects is being overbearing. Tony obviously is thinking something along the same lines because he meets Arto’s eyes with a wondering look of his own.

“Wow,” he says. “Well done, Cap. I really must say, your communication skills are really coming on-”

“Yeah, it’s my communication skills that still need working on,” Steve says with a roll of his eyes. “When are you thinking of starting the handover?”

“I’ll fly back tonight,” Tony says. “I think I need to get it done as soon as possible. We need a fresh start after this mess, and I need to make that happen.”

“But you don’t need to go right away.”

“I kind of do, kiddo. Got a lot to sort out. You two come back home when you’re ready. I’ll be there.”

Arto turns to a Steve, looking for some indicator on how he should act. Steve looks calm and simply shrugs, dipping his chin a nod that clearly says ‘ _yeah I’m okay with this.’_

“Alright,” Arto says. “Deal. Fresh start.”

 

* * *

 

Tony leaves the same way he arrived, in a blur of red and gold armour. Arto and Steve watch him go, standing shoulder to shoulder on the balcony.

“So.”

“Are we going home now then?”

“Up to you.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m ready.”

“Me too. I miss Peter and Omari. And swimming lessons.”

“School?”

“Nope.”

“Thought not.” Steve looks up at the steel-white sky, breath misting in front of his face. “Let’s sleep on it. And if tomorrow morning we want to go back to New York, we will.”

“Alright. I’m gonna go call Omari and Peter.”

Steve doesn’t question it so Arto takes that as his go ahead to talk to Peter and Omari about everything. Which he does almost immediately, getting a three way StarkTime - not as catchy as FaceTime but Tony will just not be told - conversation going. There’s the usual startup issues, with three of them all trying to talk at once but once they get the hang of it, Arto’s free to spill the beans, telling them all about Tony and Steve and his tentative plan to come home. Omari’s scales do that thing where they all fluff out in a happy little ruffle. Peter makes an inarticulate noise then starts talking at eight thousand miles per hour, gesticulating wildly and clearly delighted.

It fills Arto with joy, knowing his friends are there, ready to have his back and willing to be his friend even after all this drama.

  


* * *

 

With only Steve and Arto left in the apartment, the evening feels calm and peaceful. There’s a movie talking to itself in the background and Steve and Arto are drawing on the wall, next to the scribbles that Anna made. Steve’s doing little caricatures of the team. Arto’s drawing himself riding a dragon, wearing a flowing blue dress and his pink sneakers.

“So what do you want for dinner?” Steve asks, adding angry little eyebrows to his sketch of Bucky. Even if the little Bucky drawing is scowling and holding a knife in each hand, Steve’s somehow still managed to make him look cute.

“Do him standing in front of Clint and Anna,” Arto says. “Dunno. Pizza.”

“We have eaten so much pizza since we got here.”

“Well, we’re in Chicago,” Arto says, watching as Steve starts on a little Clint drawing to go with the Bucky. “Clint needs a band-aid on his nose.”

“And a tiny bow and arrow,” Steve agrees. “Okay, I can order pizza.”

Arto pauses, pencil suspended in front of the wall. “Or I could go?”

“No,” Steve immediately says, then actually looks at Arto and frowns. “Wait, you’re serious.”

“Yeah,” Arto says. “I’m seventeen, I can go places alone.”

Steve looks a lot like he’s been smashed in the back of the head with his shield, all vaguely confused and concussed. “But backup isn’t here.”

“Dad,” Arto says quietly, leaning sideways to nudge his shoulder against Steve’s and willing him to reboot his brain so they can actually talk about this. “I can’t have Bucky follow me around forever.”

Steve sighs. Looks at the drawing of Arto he’s done next to the one of himself. They’re almost the same height in cartoon form, though the Steve one looks more serious.

“I’ll take my cell,” Arto says, trying to sound reasonable rather than whining. It’s a tough line to negotiate. “The GPS is on. And it’s like thee blocks.”

“Let me think,” Steve says, so Arto clacks his mouth shut and waits him out, hoping and praying-

“Okay,” Steve says, and Arto’s stomach flips in sheer giddy excitement. He’d hoped for Steve to say yes but he wasn’t really expecting it. “On one condition,” Steve says before Arto can get too excited.

Arto’s shoulders slump. Steve’s going to get him a police escort or follow him twenty paces behind or something. “Yeah?”

“That when we go home you learn some more self defence with Bucky.”

Now _that_ was not what Arto was expecting. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Steve says. “If this is happening, I will freak out less if I know you know some more ways to protect yourself. If it ever came to that.”

Arto nods vigorously. “Maybe you could teach me some?”

Steve grimaces. “Maybe,” he says. “But understand...I’m your dad. If I had to teach you self defence, like actually showing you what to do if someone tried to hurt you...I’m not sure I could handle that.”

“Okay,” Arto nods. “So you’ll just check Bucky’s training plan and annoy him about it?”

“You know me so well,” Steve huffs, using the wall to push himself up. “Come on then, if you’re going to get pizza, you better go before I change my mind.”

Ten minutes later and he’s bundled up in his coat, waving goodbye to Steve at the door. His heart is going double time and he’s so nervous and scared but in a weirdly good way.

“Keep your phone on,” Steve is repeating for the tenth time. “Straight to the pizza place and back.”

“I will, I’ll be careful,” Arto insists, pressing the elevator button again. “Hey, Steve?”

“What?”

“I love you,” Arto says quickly, and jumps at Steve for a hug.

Steve hugs him back tightly. “Love you too, Art,” he says, letting him go as the elevator dings behind him. “And if anyone gives you shit about your dress or your shoes, call me because I’ll be wanting to punch them in the face too, got it?”

Arto grins, steps into the elevator. “Sir, yes, Sir,” he says, popping a salute.

Steve smiles, warm and fond as he salutes Arto back just before the doors slide shut.

 

* * *

 

Being out by himself is weird. He’s never really been alone at all, apart from those times when he was little and he was locked in the bedroom adjacent to the laboratory. That time of his life is all a little vague though, the memories pushed aside in favour of remembering his new life with Steve and Tony. It’s kind of scary, walking along the snowy streets and knowing that Bucky or Clint or Nat aren’t around. Unless Steve decides to attempt some sneaking, there’s no-one out here looking out for his safety, other than himself.

Walking with his new sneakers on his feet and his skirt brushing his knees, he feels vulnerable yet strangely brave. Powerful might be the right word, he’s not sure. He pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Peter, Omari and Nat.

_Steve let me go out on my own to pick up pizza #nosupervision_

Omari texts him back immediately with a string of exclamation points. To his surprise, Nat also texts back almost immediately, saying ‘ _my my aren’t you grown up.’_ Just to make his good mood even better, that text is followed not ten seconds later by a text from Peter, who goes for ‘OMG THATS THE BEST NEWS EVER NO MORE SPY BUCKY’ Arto laughs to himself, shoves his phone away in his pocket and carries on with his mission to get pizza, smile still in place.

 

* * *

 

 

When he gets back, pizza boxes in hand, Steve does a really bad job of pretending to be chill. If Arto were smaller, Steve’d be picking him up and not letting him go for a considerable amount of time. Seeing as Arto now weighs as much as Clint, Steve doesn’t.

“I’m okay,” Arto says. “No-one even looked twice at me.” _Not even the girl in the pizza place who was so pretty I nearly died,_ he thinks a little mournfully.

Steve seems appeased. “Okay,” he says, exhaling. “Well that was fun, let’s never do that again.”

“Steve!”

“Okay, okay. Just give my nerves time to settle.”

“Dad, you jump out of helicopters without a parachute. You don’t _have_ nerves.”

Steve takes the pizza box. “When it comes to you I do,” he says. “Get me a beer, I’ll sort these.”

They end up sprawled on the couches, pizza boxes between them. They restart the film but don’t make much more effort to watch it the second time around. Arto licks pizza grease off his thumb, watching Steve as he stares absently at the screen, the lights from the TV playing over his profile. “Can I ask you something?”

Steve pulls a face. “I know we were joking but can you give me time to get used to the idea of you going out without-”

“No, it’s not that,” Arto says. “I want to start my own Instagram.”

Now, Steve likes to play dumb when it comes to social media because it infuriates Tony no end, but Arto knows that Steve’s perfectly capable of navigating not only a twitter feed but Bucky’s actual Instagram. “What would go on this Instagram?” Steve asks, tone carefully neutral.

Arto shrugs. “Glittery shoes and shit?”

To his surprise, Steve smiles. “If you’re brave enough to show your whole-” he waves his hand, gesturing to Arto in some vague encompassing gesture, “-journey, then I think we should seriously consider it.”

“What’s to consider? My username?”

“No, smartass,” Steve says. “You’d probably get a lot of followers, so you’re stepping into being a celebrity in your own right. Though on the upside you could tell your own story first hand, which could possibly limit the amount of bullshit TMZ could get out there. And we’d have to seriously consider security. And privacy. Just an example - you’d have to be incredibly careful with what you shared about me. I’m your dad, but I’m also Captain America.”

It's not a no, which Arto recognises and appreciates. But still, he’s not earned the label of argumentative for nothing.

“Maybe I want the world to know how great my dad is,” he says. “Because he’s my dad and not just Captain America.”

That makes Steve’s mouth drop open and his eyes go all shiny. Shit, shit, shit. Tony’s been gone for half a day and Arto’s broken Steve somehow and should he call home? Tony or Bucky, who’s going to be better right now-?

“That’s,” Steve manages to say, clearing his throat. “That’s the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well it’s true,” Arto says, and he shoves the pizza out of the way so he can muscle in under Steve’s arm. “I’m glad you’re my dad.”

“And I’m glad you’re mine,” Steve says into his hair. “Boy, girl, neither, whoever.”

Arto nods and smiles, hidden safely away in Steve’s side.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve is up before Arto in the morning, and wakes him up by playing an excessively loud reveille through his phone, because he thinks he’s hilarious. Arto throws a pillow at him which of course misses, and Steve just laughs and walks out, leaving the bedroom door open because of course parents don't care about privacy.

Arto debates going back to sleep but remembers that they’re meant to be going home this morning, So drags himself up and stumbles blearily towards the shower. Of course that takes him almost an hour to get through, which isn’t his fault because he was dreaming about the Victoria Secrets models again, and if Steve mentions it he’s going to die of embarrassment. Regardless of fault or motive, by the time he’s washed up and done, Steve’s already packed all their stuff and is sitting sipping a cup of coffee, bags stacked neatly by up by the elevator.

“Dad,” Arto whines half-heartedly. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“Don’t spend fifty minutes in the shower,” Steve counters. “Ready?”

Arto nods. He’s desperate to get back now, wanting to see Tony and check he’s okay and packed up his extremis project as promised; to see Clint, Bucky and Anna; to check in with Nat and go get his nails done again, to get her to take him shopping; all his friends and his school and his swimming lessons. He’s got a lot to go back for, and as he thinks about it he feels both ridiculously lucky and a little embarrassed by how much he freaked out about Peter not talking to him. Though it wasn’t just that, he tells himself. He had a lot of shit going on.

The Tesla makes quick work of getting out of Chicago, and soon enough they’re on the interstate, tearing through Indiana. They chat about how much they're looking forwards to being in New York again, about potential sports he could try with Bucky, about the holiday that he’d all but forgotten about.

They’ve just climbed back into the car after a restroom-coffee-snack break when Steve’s phone starts to ring, a picture popping up on the center console. It’s a scowling face obscured by a metal hand trying to push the camera away. Arto immediately thinks that Bucky’s been caught up in some mess at the airport. Steve obviously thinks the same, leaning over and tapping the screen to answer the call. “Do I need to come rescue you from the TSA?”

“Actually no, the dame on the ticket desk clocked me and thanked me for my fucking service, upgraded me to first class.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope. The suit in the seat opposite me wasn’t a fan but fuck that guy. I’m a veteran and it’s about time that got me some goddamn perks.”

“So you’re calling to brag?” Steve asks, pulling his door shut and passing Arto his coffee so he can buckle in.

“No, I’m actually calling you to tell you that Tony’s gone crazy.”

Steve and Arto both jerk back simultaneously. “What?!”

“Tony’s gone crazy.”

“What do you mean?” Steve demands. “Is he okay? Tell me he’s not done anything with that fucking Extremis project-”

“He’s moving us out.”

“ _What?”_

Arto can barely get his brain working to comprehend what Bucky’s going on about. “He’s moving out?!”

“No he’s moving _everyone_ out,” Bucky says. “Apparently he owns a mansion upstate?”

“Oh god,” Steve says.

“He has a mansion?!”

“Manhattan is chaos. There’s like an army of removal trucks blocking the street outside the tower and Coulson is here with a SHIELD jet to start shifting sensitive data and equipment.”

“Put Tony on the phone,” Steve says.

“I can’t, he’s gone to the mansion to set up a base unit for Jarvis and he’s not answering-”

Steve replies with some very not-allowed swears that he’d totally bust Arto for even thinking. “We’re on the way,” he says tersely and hangs up. “Arto, buckle up.” He takes his coffee back, down it in like four gulps and drops the empty cup behind his chair, before starting the car and gunning it.

Arto throws out a hand to hang onto the door handle, both alarmed and thrilled at the speed. “Do you think Tony’s really gone crazy?”

“I think Tony has made an impulse decision which normal people would take months of discussion and planning and _talking it out_ to make,” Steve says, eyes on the road. His jaw is doing that clenched-jumpy thing which spells out trouble. “To anyone else it seems crazy but it probably makes perfect sense to Tony.”

“What like he thought injecting himself with tiny robots would make perfect sense?”

There’s the faintest hum from the Tesla as Steve accelerates just that little bit more. “Good point,” he says grimly. “Get your phone. Call Natasha.”

“Sir, Yes, sir,” Arto says, doing as he’s told as the car flies down the interstate, urgently rushing them back towards New York.

 

* * *

 

  


They get back to New York in record time, guided by the address that Bucky has sent to Steve’s phone, uploaded onto the Tesla’s console. They follow the roads not into Manhattan but further North, winding their way through small towns and open swathes of green, finally pulling up outside a huge pair of iron gates. Arto’s hanging out of the window trying to see what’s beyond but all he can see is the gravel of the drive and the curve of the hedge.

The gate opens itself, so slowly that it almost seems to be mocking them. Steve guides the car through the moment there’s enough space. Arto’s still craning his head around, trying to get a glimpse of this supposed mansion that Tony’s decided to move them all out to-

Rounding the corner, Arto and Steve both let out a string of curse words at the exact same time.

“Holy shit, we can’t live here!” Arto gasps.

“Seconded,” Steve says, braking hard to avoid the pandemonium of removal vans and SHIELD agents. They’re like ants crawling over the driveway, moving in a haphazard column up to the front door. The front door which is actually two doors, at the top of a set of wide stone steps. It’s almost as wide as the freaking steps that lead up to his school. Fuck, he can’t live in a house that’s as fancy as the goddamn mansion school he goes to, that’s just _crazy_.

A lone ant breaks away from the column and jogs over: Coulson. Steve winds his window down.

“I did tell him to call you,” Coulson says bluntly.

“Thanks for trying,” Steve says, and kills the engine. Coulson hastily steps out of the way as Steve gets out the car, radiating an inhuman amount of pissed-off-ness. Arto hastily scrambles out too, waving quickly at Phil. Steve slams the car door, marching towards the front door. “TONY!” he bellows, scattering removal men, SHIELD agents and SI employees alike. Arto follows in his wake, jogging to keep up.

Two more shouts of his name and Tony appears in the open doorway, a huge loop of cable clutched in one hand. “Oh good, you’re back,” he says. “Hey, how do you feel about moving out of the tower?”

“It looks like you already moved us!” Steve yells. A pair of workmen who were trying to get out the door past Tony freeze, slowly turn around and head back inside.

“Okay hear me out,” Tony says, holding a hand out like he's a lion tamer or some shit.

“You can’t just move all our stuff without asking!” Arto shouts. What is it with people and touching his stuff today?!

Tony blinks, looks from Steve to Arto and back again. “Wow, am I seeing double?”

“ _Dad!”_

_“Tony!”_

“Okay, okay. You know we said about making a fresh start?” Tony says. “Well I figured-”

“You moved us!” Steve interrupts. “Without asking!”

“It was a surprise!”

“No, a cake or a party would be a surprise, this is _insane!”_

Oh shit, they’re getting loud. And Arto’s confused and annoyed and angry too but he cannot deal with anymore fighting, he’s had enough and he just wants everything to go back to normal. If Steve heads back towards the Tesla, Arto will be throwing himself over the hood because they are _not_ going back to Chicago.

“Stop yelling!” he yells at them both. “Please, _don’t_ fight, not again, I just want to know what’s going on and why we’re here-”

Tony rushes down the steps onto the gravel of the driveway, reaching out to put an arm around Arto’s shoulders. “Okay, okay,” he says immediately. “No fighting. I’m not fighting, are you fighting?”

Steve grits his teeth. He exhales so heavily that his nostrils flare. “No. I’m not fighting. Tony. Please kindly explain what the hell is going on.”

“Well, I said my part about the fresh start, didn’t I?” Tony begins. “Well a while back I was looking at your art project about homes and it got me thinking that maybe it was weird we lived where we worked, and in a tower, right? And then when you went to Chicago I checked the paperwork for the building just to check you were on it too and my property paperwork guy reminded me about this place.”

Arto feels his mouth falling open. He always knew Tony was rich but that sounds kind of like Tony forgot he owned a mansion. He glances at Steve, who is looking less stunned and more like Tony is explaining the meaning of life, like he’s hooked and could spend the rest of his life listening to Tony talk.

Tony’s still talking, full steam ahead. “And I spoke to Pepper about it and she actually thought it would be a good idea. Because this way we get a fresh start. And this way I’m completely away from the Extremis project. The tower is work, this is home. I’m drawing a line. I mean, I still have a workshop here but that’s for personal projects.”

Steve strides over, grabs a Tony’s upper arms and kisses him so hard that he literally dips him back like that famous World War Two picture of the sailor and the woman. They appear to be having some sort of serious romantic moment so Arto abruptly turns away, because he really doesn’t ever need to see his Dad’s tongue, thanks.

He leaves the grossness and goes to find Bucky. Anna reaches for him so Arto gladly takes her, her weight a familiar comfort in his arms.

“Is Steve killing him or kissing him?” Bucky asks.

“Kissing,” Arto says. “Tony says he’s drawing a line between work and home.”

Bucky nudges him with his shoulder. “That’s good, right? What you wanted?”

Arto thinks of how it felt to have Tony miss so much, the absences over Christmas, the locked workshop doors. He leans down and kisses the top of Anna’s head. “Can we go in? it’s freezing.”

“Not yet. One more thing to show you yet,” Bucky says. “Come on.”

Arto follows him, not quite with it enough to argue. He’s now living in a mansion. Where is his room gonna be? Who else is going to be there? He asks Bucky that as they round the corner of the house.

“Well, me and Clint are coming too, we don’t earn enough to pay rent in Manhattan,” Bucky grins. “And here Anna’s got a proper yard to play in you know?”

“What about Nat and everyone?”

“You’ll have to ask them,” Bucky says. “But from my awesome spying skills I can determine that Nat wants a room here, but Bruce and Lilya are going to stay in the tower during the week but come here at weekends.”

“But why don’t they just-”

Arto abruptly stops as they get around the corner and he finds himself standing in front of the thing Bucky wants to show him.

“Surprise!” Clint yells, standing among the leaf litter that covers the tiles in the shallow end of an empty swimming pool. It’s huge, set deep into the yard, surrounded by a beautifully tiled patio.

“Da!” squeals Anna. Arto just stands there, dumbstruck. Bucky carefully lifts Anna out of Arto’s arms, allowing him to walk forwards onto the patio, standing at the edge of the pool.

“It’s Olympic sized!” Clint shouts, doing a cartwheel along the pale blue bottom of the pool. “Who has an Olympic-sized pool in their yard?! This is insane!”

“Oh my god,” Arto breathes. “Oh my GOD.”

“I know!” Clint laughs. “And there’s a hot tub!”

“So what d'ya reckon, Short Round?” Bucky asks. “Green light on moving in?”

Arto points at the pool. “I live here now,” he says. “Get me a hose. I’m filling it up right now.”

Bucky laughs. “Go tell Tony you like it,” he says. “Get him to give you the tour. The pool is like the eighth coolest thing about this place, I swear.”

“No,” Arto says, watching as Clint runs to the side of the pool, leaping up to grab the edge and hauling himself out. “There is nothing better than having an Olympic sized pool in the back yard.”

Bucky grins, reaches out to steer him back towards the house. “I’ll take that bet.”

  


* * *

Tony shows Arto and Steve around, and while Arto concedes that the house - the motherfucking _mansion_ with the eleven bedrooms and two dining rooms and six bathrooms and library and gym and helipad and quinjet hangar - is pretty awesomely awesome, the pool is still the most awesome thing about it.

 

* * *

Nearly ten hours later, Arto finds himself sitting on his old bed in his new room, still a little stunned by it all. His room is in the East Wing of the mansion, and he’s got his own bathroom, guest room, kitchenette and lounge. It’s like having his own apartment at the end of a corridor and it’s fucking awesome. Steve and Tony have their rooms upstairs in the main part of the building, and Bucky, Clint and Anna have a self-contained wing at the back of the house. There are boxes everywhere and SHIELD employees are still banging around in the basement, setting up equipment under Tony’s careful supervision.

A soft knock on his door makes him look up. It’s Steve, smiling tiredly.

“So, are you as freaked out as I am?”

“Why are you freaked out?”

“I’m an orphan from Brooklyn,” Steve says, leaning against the doorframe. “Never thought I’d be living upstate in a mansion.”

“Bet you never thought you’d be a superhero, either.”

Steve laughs at that. “True,” he concedes. “So, you’re happy to stay here?”

Arto nods vigorously. “I like having my own space. Can we get a buzzer on the door at the end of the corridor?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Though I’m having an override.”

Arto groans. “Then what’s the point?”

“We’ll work out a compromise.”

“Sure,” Arto says. “Are you happy to live here?”

“I’m happy to live wherever you and Tony are,” Steve says simply, the yawns and flaps his hand at Arto in a sort of wave. “Damn, I’m tired. I’m gonna go pass out for twelve hours, we can sort out new furniture and decorating for your rooms tomorrow, okay?”

“Sounds good,” Arto says, and Steve salutes him before vanishing.

Arto slumps back against his headboard, staring at the pale cream wall in front of him. His room isn’t as big as the one in the tower but it doesn’t really matter because he’s got four whole rooms all of his own. And he’s already starting to love this place, the plush carpets and the dark wood. He can imagine them being happy here. Every member of his slightly dysfunctional family.

He reaches for his phone, starts to smile as he opens a text to Omari and Peter.

_You are not going to believe what’s just happened to me._

 

* * *

He’s woken by a loud banging on his bedroom door. He jerks his head up and has a horrible bleary moment of disorientation, his brain flailing and panicking and trying to work out where he is. Not the tower, not the apartment, not a hotel. The mansion. Right.

He’d fallen asleep still wearing his long dress-shirt and has a moment of wondering if he should change into something that looks less like a old-timey nightgown, but apparently whoever is outside his door isn’t fond of waiting. _Clint_ he thinks, clambering out of bed and shivering slightly. It’s still bitterly cold out- not as deep in snow as Chicago but cold enough so that he’s not going to go outside unless he absolutely has to. That pool outside better be heated. 

He pulls open the door and is promptly almost knocked over by a whirlwind of arms and legs and frantic babbling.

“Oh my god you’re back and I missed you and I’m so sorry I’m never going to not talk to you again, this has been the worst-”

Arto regains his footing, seizes Peter around the middle and hugs him so tight he lifts him off the floor. Peter yelps and it’s only then that Arto realises that Omari is there too, grinning widely and bouncing on his heels.

“Omari!” Arto exclaims, dropping Peter and stretching a hand out for Omari to grab. Damn, sometimes he wishes he could just hug him tight like he does with Peter and the others, but he knows how much he hates having too much pressure on his scales.

“Clint came to pick us up,” Peter explains, already nosing around Arto’s new room, looking in the ensuite and walk-in closet. “This place is the coolest. When’re you moving the rest of your stuff in?”

Arto still feels a little blindsided. “I just woke up.”

Omari laughs, going to sit on Arto’s bed. Peter pokes his head back out of the closet, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he says. “For waking you up, and for the whole ignoring you thing.”

Arto goes very still, not sure if he’s heard right.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Peter says, suddenly awkward. The atmosphere in the room goes from super happy to super serious in two seconds flat. “Hey, is Jarvis here?”

Arto skates his head.

“Any surveillance?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay,” Peter says, looking nervous. “Can we shut the door?”

Arto shares a glance with Omari, who looks just as nonplussed at he feels. He goes and closes the door, sits next to Omari, pulling his blanket around his shoulders and clutching his pillow to his chest.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Peter says, pointing a finger at them both, then without waiting for an answer he walks over to the bare cream wall, then climbs straight up it on his hands and feet like some sort of fucked up lizard man.

Arto and Omari both start yelling incoherently in shock. Peter twists around, throwing a hand out to try and calm them down. It doesn’t work because he’s hanging off of the wall eight feet off the ground.

“You’re on the ceiling!” Omari manages to say. “On the ceiling!”

“I know, I know, but stop yelling,” Peter says. “Arto, make him stop!”

Arto reaches out automatically and claps a hand over Omari’s mouth. He’s shaking head to toe, quite clearly completely stunned. Honestly, Arto’s not much better but he’s grown up with the Avengers so weird is kinda the default setting.

“So, there was this thing, for science, this tour of some labs, and spiders, and one bit me and now I…” Peter trails off, shrugs. “I have spider powers.”

So a fucked up spider man then, not a lizard.

“Spider powers?!”

“Yeah, I can climb and my reflexes are super fast and I’m stronger. I learned how to make webs out of-”

“Do you have eight legs?!”

“What? No!”

“Do you eat flies?”

“No, it’s just the climbing and webs and strength and reflexes,” Peter says.

Arto just stares. “One of my best friends is a silver sandslash and the other is a spider.”

“I’m not a spider, I just do spider things,” Peter says. “Look.” He does a strange flick of his wrist and a line of motherfucking _spiderweb_ shoots out across the room, attaching itself to Arto’s phone. Peter yanks his hand back and the phone sails across into his hand.

“That’s gross,” Omari half whispers.

“That’s amazing!” Arto decides, standing up and walking over so he’s nearly directly under Peter. “This is so cool! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I don’t care that you’re a freaky spider mutant!”

“Because I want to use my spider powers to help people and stuff you know? Fight crime. But your dads are Captain America and Iron Man and if they knew they’d stop me because they’ll say I’m too young.”

Arto’s mouth drops open. “So you weren’t avoiding me, you were avoiding my dads!”

Peter shrugs a little helplessly. “Steve’d tell Aunt May.”

Arto doesn’t know how to react so ends up working on pure instinct, which is why he ends up throwing his pillow at Peter. It hits him right in the face, dropping back down to the floor. Arto sees Peters shocked face for about who seconds before Peter drops off of the ceiling onto Arto, attempting to put him in a headlock.

Fuck, he _did_ get stronger. But Arto’s a super soldier and like hell is he letting his dumb, not-talking-to-him, spider-friend beat him.

“Stop it!” Omari yells, even as they tip over onto the floor, still trying to wrestle each other into submission.

“No, he’s dumb and - ow - and should have trusted me to not tell my dads!”

“It wasn’t you - ouch - it was Jarvis and the surveillance and Bucky- let go!”

“You let go,” Arto pants, trying to kick Peter's feet away. “I was having ten million crisises and you weren’t there!”

“I know and I’m sorry,” Peter twists Arto’s arm up behind his back, trying to shove him down into the carpet. “You’re my best friend - Hey, you can’t bite me, are you crazy?!”

Omari suddenly stops waving his arms about and trying to separate them. “Someone’s coming!”

Peter and Arto freeze, glance at each other, then scramble madly to get up. Peter lunges to get rid of the incriminating web-line; Arto dives back into bed, pulling the covers up over him; Omari grabs the pillow that had been used as a weapon, jumping to sit on the end of the bed.

Peter drops to sit on the floor just as there’s a rap on the door and Steve pushes his way in, holding Anna on his hip. Luckily, she's trying her best to wriggle up his chest so his attention is on her and not focused on the three slightly shifty-looking, breathless teenagers who were rolling around on the floor fighting not eight seconds ago.

“Knew he’d still be in bed,” he says pointedly to Peter and Omari.

“Well he’s awake now?” Peter tries.

“Alright troops. One hour and we’re going to retrieve furniture from the Tower and pick out colours for your rooms,” he says to Arto, bouncing Anna on his hip as she fusses, making grabby hands for something in his other hand. “And we’ll also get donuts for breakfast, as long as neither of you two tell on me. I don't want Aunt May to lecture me about diabetes again.”

“Sir, Yes, sir,” Arto replies and Steve’s gone again, talking seriously to Anna about binkies as he goes down the corridor. It’s only when Arto hears the outer door to his wing close that he relaxes, flopping back onto his blankets.

“Oh man.”

“Tell me about it,” says Peter forlornly.

They fall quiet. Arto takes a moment to process. No wonder Peter didn't tell him, the idiot. He supposes the combined fear of disappointing Tony, Steve and Aunt May would be enough to make anyone keep their mouth shut. And...on the plus side....He's got another friend who's not just regular human now. Something else they've got in common.

It's Omari who breaks the silence. “Art, are you gonna wear your new sneakers? I wanna see them.”

“Yeah!” Peter enthuses, all his worry about hiding his spider-powers abruptly gone now the subject’s been changed. “Fashion show! Come on, show us!”

Arto laughs, climbing out of bed. “Fuck,” he says, running at his tired eyes. **“** Oh my god. Spiders and mansions and dismantling the gender construct. Life is going to be so different now.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, coming over to sling an arm around his neck. From his other side, Omari reaches out to pat his hip consolingly. “It’s not like all bad though, right?”

Arto’s face breaks out into a grin. He glances left and right, feeling his heart swelling in his rib cage. “Nah,” he says. “Not bad at all.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Counterpart instalment finished! Thank you to everyone who has ever dipped into the world of my favourite baby super-solider; your support means more to me than anything. I have one more big story planned for this universe but am ALWAYS down to talk about Arto and Co., and I do take requests and prompts too :D


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